AY 



pur-' 
^17 



THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



OF 



ALFRED LORD TENNYSON, 



POET LAUREATE. 



NEW YORK: 46 East 14TH Street. 

THOMASY. CROWELL & CO. 

BOSTON : 100 Purchase Street. 



\v\ 






Copyright, 

By Thomas Y. Crowell & Co. 

1885. 



By Transfer 
Maritime Comm. 



SEP 3 



1940 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Achilles over the Trench 591 

Adeline 23 

Alexander. (Early Sonnets.) 28 

All Things will Die 4 

Amphion 118 

Ancient Sage, The 605 

Arrival, The. (The Day Dream.) 116 

"Ask me no more." (Princess.) 431 

As through the land. (Princess.) 390 

Audley Court 87 

Aylmer's Field 140 

"Babble in Bower." (Becket.) 872 

Balin and Balan 619 

Ballad of Oriana, The 20 

Ballads and other Poems 552 

Battle of Brunanburh 589 

Beautiful City 686 

Becket 839 

Beggar Maid, The 130 

Blackbird, The 66 

Boadicea 190 

Break, break, break 135 

Bridesmaid, The. (Early Sonnets.) .... 30 

Brook, The 136 

Buonaparte 29 

By an Evolutionist 685 

Captain, The : 126 

Caress'd or Chidden. (Early Sonnets.) 29 

Character, A 16 

Charge of the Heavy Brigade 631 

Charge of the Light Brigade 170 

Choric Song. (The Lotos Eaters.) 59 

Circumstance 21 

City Child, The 185 

Claribel 3 

Columbus 579 

Come down, O maid. (Princess.) 435 

Coming of Arthur, The 198 

Come into the garden. (Maud.) 454 

Come not when I am dead 130 

Crossing the Bar 687 

Cup, The 810 



-PAGE 

Daisy, The 181 

Day Dream, The 114 

Dead Prophet, The 634 

Death of the Old Year, The 67 

Dedication, A 190 

Dedicatory Poem to the Princess Alice 572 

Defence of Lucknow, The 573 

Demeter and Persephone 652 

De Profundis 587 

Deserted House, The 18 

Despair 601 

Dirge, A 19 

Dora 84 

Dream of Fair Women, A 61 

Dying Swan, The 19 

Eagle, The 130 

Early Sonnets 28 

Early Spring 635 

Edward Gray 121 

Edwin Morris 91 

Eleanore 25 

England and America in 1782 71 

English Idyls 73 

Enoch Arden 463 

Epic, The 73 

Epilogue 632 

Epilogue. (Day Dream.) 118 

Epitaph on Caxton 637 

Epitaph on General Gordon 637 

Epitaph on Lord Stratford de Redcliffe 637 

Experiments 190 

Falcon, The 827 

Farewell, A 129 

Far — Far — Away 685 

Fatima 42 

First Quarrel, The 552 

Fleet, The 648 

Flight, The 609 

Flower, The 184 

Forlorn 670 

Frater Ave atque Vale 636 

Freedom 638 

iii 



iv 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Gardener's Daughter, The 79 

Gareth and Lynette 208 

Geraint and Enid 235 

Godiva 113 

Golden Year, The 103 

Go not happy dJ^. (Maud.) 450 

Goose, The 72 

Grandmother, The 173 

Guinevere 356 

t 

Hands all Round 637 

Hapless doom of woman. (Queen Mary.) 758 

Happy 671 

Harold 767 

Helen's Tower 637 

Heudecasyllabics 192 

Hexameters and Pentameters 192 

Higher Pantheism, The 188 

Holy Grail, The 313 

Home they brought her warrior. (Prin- 
cess.) 425 

I come from haunts. (The Brook.) 136 

Idyls of the King 197 

If I were loved. (Early Sonnets.) 30 

In Memoriam 480 

In Memoriam. (W. G. Ward.) 687 

In the Children's Hospital 570 

In the Garden at Swainston 184 

In the Valley of Cauteretz 183 

Isabel 7 

Islet, The 185 

It is the Miller's Daughter 41 

Juvenilia 3 

Kraken, The 7 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere 53 

Lady Clare 124 

Lady of Shalott, The 31 

Lancelot and Elaine 287 

Last Tournament, The 2 

Late, late, so late. (Guinevere.) 359 

L'Envoi. (Day Dream.) 117 

Leonin3 Elegiacs 4 

Letters, The 130 

Lilian 7 

Literary Squabbles 186 

Locksley Hall 107 

Locksley Hall Sixty Years After 640 

Lord of Burleigh, The 127 

Lotos Eaters, The 58 

Love and Death 20 

Love and Duty 101 

Lover's Tale, The 525 



PAGE 

Love that hath us. (Miller's Daughter.) 42 

Love thou thy Land 70 

Lucretius 160 

Madeline 11 

Margaret 24 

Mariana 8 

Mariana in the South 9 

Maud 440 

May Queen, The 54 

Merlin and the Gleam 679 

Merlin and Vivieu 268 

Mermaid, The 22 

Merman, The 22 

Miller's Daughter, The 39 

Milton. (Alcaics.) 192 

Mine be the strength. (Early Sonnets.) 28 

Minnie and Winnie 186 

Montenegro 588 

Moral. (Day Dream.) 117 

Morte d' Arthur 74 

Move eastward, happy earth 130 

My life is full of weary days 27 

Northern Cobbler, The 557 

Northern Farmer. (New Style.) 179 

Northern Farmer. (Old Style.) 177 

Nothing will die 3 

Now sleeps the crimson petal. (Prin- 
cess.) 435 

Oak, The 687 

Ode on the death of the Duke of Wel- 
lington 165 

Ode sung at Opening of International 

Exhibition 171 

Ode to memory. Addressed to .... 14 

CEnone 43 

Of old sat Freedom on the heights 68 

On a mourner 68 

On one w^o affected an Effeminate Man- fc 

ner 686 

On the Jubilee of Queen Victoria 650 

Opening of the Indian and Colonial Ex- 
hibition by the Queen 649 

O swallow, swallow, flying. (Princess.) 406 

Our enemies have n. (Princess)... 425 

Owd Roa 655 

Palace of Art, The 48 

Parnassus 684 

Passing of Arthur, The 369 

Pelleas and Ettarre 330 

Play, The 686 

Poet, The 16 

Poets and their Bibliographies. 689 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Poet's Mind, The 17 

Poet's Song, The 135 

Poland. (Early Sonnets.) 29 

Politics 686 

Prefatory Poem to ray Brother's Sonnets 636 
Prefatory Sonnet to the "Nineteenth 

Century " 588 

Princess, The 381 

Progress of Spring, The 677 

Prologue. (Day Dream.) 114 

Prologue to General Hamley 630 

Promise of May, The 898 

Queen Mary 688 

Recollections of the Arabian Nights 12 

Requiescat 184 

Revenge, The 559 

Revival, The. (Day Dream.) 116 

Ring, The 660 

Rizpah 554 

Romney's Remorse 681 

Rosalind 25 

RoBes on the Terrace, The 686 

Round Table, The 208 

Sailor Boy, The 184 

Sea Dreams 155 

Sea Fairies, The 18 

Sir Galahad 120 

Sir John Franklin 592 

Sir John Oldcastle 575 

Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere — 129 

Sisters, The 47 

Sisters, The 562 

Sleeping Beauty, The. (Day Dream.) . . 115 
Sleeping Palace, The. (Day Dream.) .. 115 

Snowdrop, The 686 

Song: 

A spirit haunts 15 

The Owl 11 

To the same 12 

The winds as at their hour 7 

Specimen of Translation Homer's Iliad. 192 

Spinster's Sweet-arts, The 615 

Spiteful Letter, The 186 

St. Agnes' Eve 120 

8t. Simeon Stylites 94 

Supposed Confessions of a Sensitive 

Mind 4 

Sweet and Low. (Princess.) 398 

Talking Oak, The 97 

Tears, idle tears. (Princess.) 405 

The form, the form alone. (Early Son- 
nets.) 80 



PAGE 

The splendor falls. (Princess.) 404 

Third of February, The . . . .• 169 

Throstle, The 687 

Thy voice is heard. (Princess.) 414 

Tiresias 5S3 

Tithonus c 106 

Tomorrow 613 

To , after reading a Life and Letters 134 

To , " As when with downcast eyes " 28 

To , " Clearheaded friend:' 10 

To , with the following Poem 48 

To Dante 592 

To E. Fitzgerald 693 

To E. L., on his Travels in Greece 135 

To H.R.H. Princess Beatrice 639 

To J.M.K 28 

To J.S 67 

To Mary Boyle 676 

To one who ran down the English 686 

To Princess Frederica 592 

To Professor Jebb 651 

To the Duke of Argyll 637 

To the Marquis of Dufferin and Ava 649 

To the Queen 1 

To the Queen 378 

To the Rev. F. D. Maurice 182 

To the Rev. W. H. Brookfield 588 

To Ulysses 675 

To Victor Hugo 589 

To Virgil 633 

Two Voices, The 33 

Ulysses 104 

Vastness 658 

Victim, The 186 

Village Wife, The 567 

Vision of Sin, The 131 

Voice and the Peak, The 188 

Voyage, The 128 

Voyage of Maeldune, The , 583 

Wages 188 

Walking to the Mail 89 

Wan sculptor, weepest thou. (Early 

Sonnets.) 80 

Welcome to Alexandra 172 

Welcome to Marie Alexandrovna 172 

What does little birdie say? 160 

Will 183 

Will Waterproof's Lyrical Monologue.. 122 

Window, The 193 

Wreck, The 697 

You ask me, why, tho* ill at ease 69 



J 



TO THE QUEEN. 



Revered, beloved — you that hold 

A nobler office upon earth 

Than arms, or power of brains, or birth 
Could give the warrior Icings of old, 

Victoria, — since your Royal grace 
To one of less desert allows 
This laurel greener from the brows 

Of him that utter d nothing base; 

And, should your greatness, and the care 

That yokes with empire, yield you time 
To make demand of modern rhymx 

If aught of ancient worth be there; 

Then — while a sweeter music wakes, 

And thro wild March the throstle calls, 
Where all about your palace-walls 

The sun-lit almond-blossom shakes — 

Take, Madam, this poor book of song ; 
For thd the faults were thick as dust 



TO THE QUEEN. 



In vacant chambers, I could trust 
Your kindness. May you rule us long, 

And leave us rulers of your blood 
As noble till the latest day ! 
May children of our children say, 

" She wrought her people lasting good; 

" Her court was pure ; her life serene; 

God gave her peace; her land reposed 
A thousand claims to reverence closed 

In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen; 

" And statesmen at her council met 

Who knew the seasons when to take 
Occasion by the hand, and make 

The bounds of freedom wider yet 

" By shaping some august decree, 

Which kept her throne unshaken still, 
Broad-based upon her peoples will, 

And compass d by the inviolate sea" 



March, 1851. 



JTTVElSriLXA. 



CLARIBEL. 

A MELODY. 
I. 

Where Claribel low-lieth 
The breezes pause and die, 
Letting the rose-leaves fall : 
But the solemn oak-tree sigheth, 
Thick-leaved, ambrosial, 
With an ancient melody 
Of an inward agony, 
Where Claribel low-lieth. 



At eve the beetle boometh 

Athwart the thicket lone : 
At noon the wild bee hummeth 

About the moss'd headstone ; 
At midnight the moon cometh 

And looketh down alone. 
Her song the lintwhite swelleth, 
The clear-voiced mavis dwelleth, 

The callow throstle lispeth, 
The slumbrous wave outwelleth, 

The babbling runnel crispeth, 
The hollow grot replieth 

Where Claribel low-lieth. 



NOTHING WILL DIE. 

When will the stieam be aweary of 
flowing 
Under my eye ? 
When will the wind be aweary of 
blowing 
Over the sky ? 



When will the clouds be aweary of 

fleeting ? 
When will the heart be aweary of 
beating * 
And nature die ? 
Never, oh ! never, nothing will die ; 
The stream flows, 
The wind blows, 
The cloud fleets, 
The heart beats, 
Nothing will die. 

Nothing will die ; 
All things will change 
Thro' eternity. 
'Tis the world's winter; 
Autumn and summer 
Are gone long ago ; 
Earth is dry to the centre, 
But spring, a new comer, 
A spring rich and strange, 
Shall make the winds blow 
Round and round, 
Thro' and thro', 

Here and there, 

Till the air 
And the ground 
Shall be fill'd with life anew. 

The world was never made ; 
It will change, but it will not fade. 
So let the wind range ; 
For even and morn 

Ever will be 

Thro' eternity. 
Nothing was born ; 
Nothing will die ; 
All things will change. 



ALL THINGS WILL DIE. 



ALL THINGS WILL DIE. 

Clearly the blue river chimes in its 
flowing 

Under my eye ; 
Warmly and broadly the south winds 
are bl'owing 

Over the sky. 
One after another the white clouds are 

fleecing ; 
Every heartr-this May morning in joy- 
ance is beating 

Full merrily ; 
Yet all things must die. 
The stream will cease to flow ; 
The wind will cease to blow ; 
The clouds will cease to fleet ; 
The heart will cease to beat ; 
For all things must die. 

All things must die. 
Spring will come never more. 

Oh ! vanity ! 
Death waits at the door. 
See ! our friends are all forsaking 
The wine and the merrymaking. 
We are call'd — we must go. 
Laid low, very low, 
In the dark we must lie. 
The merry glees are still ; 
The voice of the bird 
Shall no more be heard, 
Nor the wind on the hill. 

Oh! misery! 
Hark ! death is calling 
While I speak to ye, 
The jaw is falling, 
The red cheek paling, 
The strong limbs failing; 
Ice with the warm blood mixing ; 
The eyeballs fixing. 
Nine times goes the passing bell : 
Ye merry souls, farewell. 

The old earth 

Had a birth, 

As all men know, 

Long ago. 
And the old earth must die. 
So let the warm winds range, 
And the blue wave beat the shore ; 
For even and morn 
Ye will never see 
Thro' eternity. 



All things were born. 
Ye will come never more, 
For all things must die. 



LEONINE ELEGIACS. 

Low-flowing breezes arc roaming 
the broad valley dimm'd in the 
gloaming : 

Thoro' the black-stemm'd pines only 
the far river shines. 

Creeping thro' blossomy rushes and 
bowers of rose-blowing bushes, 

Down by the poplar tall rivulets bab- 
ble and fall. 

Barketh the shepherd-dog cheerly ; the 
grasshopper carolleth clearly; 

Deeply the wood-dove coos ; shrilly 
the owlet halloos ; 

Winds creep ; dews fall chilly : in her 
first sleep earth breathes stilly : 

Over the pools in the burn water-gnats 
murmur and mourn. 

Sadly the far kine loweth : the glim- 
mering water out-floweth : 

Twin peaks shadow'd with pine slope 
to the dark hyaline. « 

Low-throned Hesper is stayed between 
the two peaks ; but the Naiad 

Throbbing in mild unrest holds him 
beneath in her breast. 

The ancient poetess singeth, that Hes- 
perus all things bringeth, 

Smoothing the wearied mind: bring 
me my love, Rosalind. 

Thou comest morning or even; she 
cometh not morning or even. 

False-eyed Hesper, unkind, where is 
my sweet Rosalind ? 



SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS 

OF A SECOND-RATE SENSITIVE MIND. 

God! my God ! have mercy now. 

1 faint, I fall. Men say that Thou 
Didst die for me, for such as me, 
Patient of ill, and death, and scorn, 
And that my sin was as a thorn 



CONFESSIONS OF A SENSITIVE MIND. 



Among the thorns that girt Thy brow, 

Wounding Thy soul. — That even now, 

In this extremest misery 

Of ignorance, I should require 

A sign ! and if a bolt of fire 

Would rive the slumbrous summer 

noon 
While I do pray to Thee alone, 
Think my belief would stronger grow : 
Is not my human pride brought low ? 
The boastings of my spirit still? 
The joy I had in my freewill 
All cold, and dead, and corpse-like 

grown ? 
And what is left to me, but Thou 
And faith in Thee ? Men pass me by ; 
Christians with happy countenances — 
And children all seem full of Thee ! 
And women smile with saint-like 

glances 
Like Thine own mother's when she 

bow'd 
Above Thee, on that happy morn 
When angels spake to men aloud, 
And Thou and peace to earth were 

born, 
Goodwill to me as well as all — 
I one of them : my brothers they : 
Brothers in Christ — a world of peace 
And confidence, day after day ; 
And trust and hope till things should 

cease, 
And then one Heaven receive us all. 

How sweet to have a common faith ! 
To hold a common scorn of death ! 
And at a burial to hear 
The creaking cords which wound and 

eat 
Into my human heart, whene'er 
Earth goes to earth, with grief, not 

fear, 
With hopeful grief, were passing 

sweet ! 

Thrice happy state again to be 
The trustful infant on the knee ! 
Who lets his rosy fingers play 
About his mother's neck, and knows 
Nothing beyond his mother's eyes. 
They comfort him by night and day; 
They light his little life alway ; 



He hath no thought of coming woes ; 
He hath no care of life or death; 
Scarce outward signs of joy arise, 
Because the Spirit of happiness 
And perfect rest so inward is ; 
And loveth so his innocent heart, 
Her temple and her place of birth, 
Where she would ever wish to dwell, 
Life of the fountain there, beneath 
Its salient springs, and faj apart, 
Hating to wander out on earth, 
Or breathe into the hollow air, 
Whose chillness would make visible 
Her subtil, warm, and golden breath, 
Which mixing with the infant's blood, 
Fulfils him with beatitude. 
Oh ! sure it is a special care 
Of God, to fortify from doubt, 
To arm in proof, and guard about 
With triple-mailed trust, and clear 
Delight, the infant's dawning year. 

Would that my gloomed fancy were 
As thine, my mother, when with brows 
Propt on thy knees, my hands upheld 
In thine, I listen'd to thy vows, 
For me outpour'd in holiest prayer — 
For me unworthy ! — and beheld 
Thy miid deep eyes upraised, that knew 
The beauty and repose of faith, 
And the clear spirit shining thro'. 
Oh ! wherefore do we grow awry 
From roots which strike so deep ? why 

dare 
Paths in the desert 1 Could not I 
Bow myself down, where thou hast 

knelt, 
To the earth — until the ice would 

melt 
Here, and I feel as thou hast felt 1 
What Devil had the heart to scathe 
Flowers thou hadst rear'd — to brush 

the dew 
From thine own lily, when thy grave 
Was deep, my mother, in the clay ? 
Myself? Is it thus? Myself? Had I 
So little love for thee ? But why 
Prevail'd not thy pure prayers ? Why 

pray 
To one who heeds not, who can save 
But will not? Great in faith, and 

strong 



CONFESSIONS OF A SENSITIVE MIND. 



Against the grief of circumstance 
Wert thou, and yet unheard. What if 
Thou pleadest still, and seest me drive 
Thro' utter dark a full-saiPd skiff, 
Unpiloted i' the echoing dance 
Of reboant whirlwinds, stooping low 
Unto the death, not sunk ! I know 
At matins and at evensong, 
That thou, if thou wert yet alive, 
In deep and daily prayers would'st 

strive 
To reconcile me with thy God. 
Albeit, my hope is gray, and cold 
At heart, thou wouldest murmur 

still — 
"Bring this lamb back into Thy fold, 
My Lord, if so it be Thy will." 
Would'st tell me I must brook the rod 
And chastisement of human pride ; 
That pride, the sin of devils, stood 
Betwixt me and the light of God ! 
That hitherto I had defied 
And had rejected God — that grace 
Would drop from his o'er-brimming 

love, 
As manna on my wilderness, 
If I would pray — that God would 

move 
And strike the hard, hard rock, and 

thence, 
Sweet in their utmost bitterness, 
Would issue tears of penitence 
Which would keep green hope's life. 

Alas! 
I think that pride hath now no place 
Nor sojourn in me. I am void, 
Dark, formless, utterly destroyed. 

Why not believe then ? Why not yet 
Anchor thy frailty there, where man 
Hath moor'd and rested ? Ask the sea 
At midnight, when the crisp slope 

waves 
After a tempest, rib and fret 
The broad-imbased beach, why he 
Slumbers not like a mountain tarn ? 
Wherefore his ridges are not curls 
And ripples of an inland mere ? 
Wherefore he moaneth thus, nor can 
Draw down into his vexed pools 
All that blue heaven which hues and 

paves 



The other ? I am too forlorn, 
Too shaken : my own weakness fools 
My judgment, and my spirit whirls, 
Moved from beneath with doubt and 
fear. 

" Yet," said I in my morn of youth, 
The unsunn'd freshness of my strength, 
When I went forth in quest of truth, 
" It is man's privilege to doubt, 
If so be that from doubt at length, 
Truth may stand forth unmoved of 

change, 
An image with profulgent brows, 
And perfect limbs, as from the storm 
Of running fires and fluid range 
Of lawless airs, at last stood out 
This excellence and solid form 
Of constant beauty. For the Ox 
Feeds in the herb, and sleeps, or fills 
The horned valleys all about, 
And hollows of the fringed hills 
In summer heats, with placid lows 
Unfearing, till his own blood flows 
About his hoof. And in the flocks 
The lamb rejoiceth in the year, 
And raceth freely with his fere, 
And answers to his mother's calls 
From the flower'd furrow. In a time, 
Of which he wots not, run short pains 
Thro' his warm heart ; and then, from 

whence 
He knows not, on his light there falls 
A shadow ; and his native slope, 
Where he was wont to leap and climb, 
Floats from his sick and filmed eyes, 
And something in the darkness draws 
His forehead earthward, and he dies. 
Shall man live thus, in joy and hope 
As a young lamb, who cannot dream, 
Living, but that he shall live on ? 
Shall we not look into the laws 
Of life and death, and things that 

seem, 
And things that be, and analyze 
Our double nature, and compare 
All creeds till we have found the one. 
If one there be ? " Ay me ! I fear 
All may not doubt, but everywhere 
Some must clasp Idols. Yet, my God, 
Whom call I Idol 1 Let Thy dove 
Shadow me over, and my sins 



THE KRAKEN. 



Be unremember'd, and Thy love 
Enlighten 4 me. Oh teach me yet 
Somewhat before the heavy clod 
Weighs on me, and the busy fret 
Of that sharp-headed worm begins 
In the gross blackness underneath. 

O weary life ! O weary death ! 
O spirit and heart made desolate ! 
O damned vacillating state ! 



THE KRAKEN. 

Below the thunders of the upper 
deep ; 

Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea, 

His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded 
sleep 

The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sun- 
lights flee 

About his shadowy sides : above him 
swell 

Huge sponges of millennial growth 
and height ; 

And far away into the sickly light, 

From many a wondrous grot and 
secret cell 

Unnumber'd and enormous polypi 

Winnow with giant arms the slumber- 
ing green. 

There hath he lain for ages and will lie 

Battening upon huge seaworms in his 
sleep, 

Until the latter fire shall heat the 
deep ; 

Then once by man and angels to be 
seen, 

In roaring he shall rise and on the 
surface die. 



SONG. 
The winds, as at their hour of birth, 

Leaning upon the ridged sea, 
Breathed low around the rolling earth 
With mellow preludes, " We are 
free." 

The streams through many a lilied row 
Down-carolling to the crisped sea, 

Low-tinkled with a bell-like flow 
Atween the blossoms, " We are 
free." 



LILIAN. 

i. 

Airy, fairy Lilian, 

Flitting, fairy Lilian, 
When I ask her if she love me, 
Clasps her tiny hands above me, 

Laughing all she can ; 
She'll not tell me if she love me, 

Cruel little Lilian. 



When my passion seeks 
Pleasance in love-sighs, 
She, looking thro' and thro' me 
Thoroughly to undo me, 
Smiling, never speaks: 
So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple, 
From beneath her gathered wimple 
Glancing with black-beaded eyes, 
Till the lightning laughters dimple 
The baby-roses in her cheeks ; 
Then away she flies. 



Prithee weep, May Lilian ! 
Gayety without eclipse 

Wearieth me, May Lilian : 
Thro' my very heart it thrilleth 

When from crimson-threaded lips 
Silver-treble laughter trilleth: 

Prithee weep, May Lilian. 



Praying all I can, 
If prayers will not hush thee, 

Airy Lilian, 
Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee, 

Fairy Lilian. 



ISABEL, 
i. 
Eyes not down-dropt nor over-bright, 
but fed 
With the clear-pointed flame of 

chastity, 
Clear, without heat, undying, tended 

by 

Pure vestal thoughts in the trans- 
lucent fane 



MARIANA. 



Of her still spirit ; locks not wide-dis- 
pread, 
Madonna-wise on either side her 

head; 
Sweet lips whereon perpetually 
did reign 
The summer calm of golden charity, 
Were fixed shadows of thy fixed mood, 
Revered Isabel, the crown and 
head-X 
The stately flower of female fortitude, 
Of perfect wifehood and pure 
lowlihead. 



The intuitive decision of a bright 
And thorough-edged intellect to part 
Error from crime ; a prudence to 

withhold ; 
The laws of marriage character'd 
in gold 
Upon the blanched tablets of her 
heart ; 
A love still burning upward, giving 

light 
To read those laws; an accent very 

low 
In blandishment, but a most silver flow 
Of subtle-paced counsel in dis- 
tress, 
Right to the heart and brain, tho' 
undescried, 
Winning its way with extreme 
gentleness 
Thro' all the outworks of suspicious 

pride ; 
A. courage to endure and to obey ; 
A hate of gossip parlance, and of sway, 
Crown'd Isabel, thro' all her placid life, 
The queen of marriage, a most perfect 
wife. 



The mellow'd reflex of a winter moon ; 
A clear stream flowing with a muddy 
one, 
Till in its onward current it absorbs 
With swifter movement and in 
purer light 
The vexed eddies of its wayward 
brother*. 
A leaning and upbearing parasite, 



Clothing the stem, which else had 
fallen quite 
With cluster'd flower-bells and am- 
brosial orbs 
Of rich fruit-bunches leaning on 

each other — 
Shadow forth thee : — the world 
hath not another 
(Tho' all her fairest forms are types 

of thee, 
And thou of God in thy great charity) 
Of such a finish'd chasten'd purity. 



MARIANA. 

" Mariana in the moated grange." 

Measure for Measure. 

With blackest moss the flower-plots 
Were thickly crusted, one and all : 
The rusted nails fell from the knots 
That held the pear to the gable- 
wall. 
The broken sheds look'd sad and 
strange : 
Unlifted was the clinking latch ; 
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch 
Upon the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, " My life is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said ; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead ! " 

Her tears fell with the dews at even ; 
Her tears fell ere the dews were 
dried ; 
She could not look on the sweet heaven, 

Either at morn or eventide. 
After the flitting of the bats, 

When thickest dark did trance the 

sky, 
She drew her casement-curtain by, 
Andglancedathwartthegloomingflats. 
She only said, "The night is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said ; 

She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead ! " 

Upon the middle of the night, 

Waking she heard the night-fowl 
crow: 

The cock sung out an hour ere light : 
From the dark fen the oxen's lo*-r 



■M WuWWmSK^. Mm 




She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead ! ' " 

Page 8. 



ft 



MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 



Came to her : without hope of change, 
In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn, 
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed 
morn 
About the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, " The day is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said ; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
T would that I were dead ! " 

About a stone-cast from the wall 

A sluice with blacken'd waters slept, 
And o'er it many, round and small, 

The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. 
Hard by a poplar shook alway, 
All silver-green with gnarled bark : 
For leagues no other tree did mark 
The level waste, the rounding gray. 
She only said, " My life is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said ; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead ! " 

And ever when the moon was low, 
And the shrill winds were up and 
away, 
In the white curtain, to and fro, 

She saw the gusty shadow sway. 
But when the moon was very low, 
And wild winds bound within their 

cell, 
The shadow of the poplar fell 
Upon her bed, across her brow. 

She only said, "The night is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said ; 

She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead ! " 

All day within the dreamy house, 

The doors upon their hinges creak'd; 
The blue fly sung in the pane ; the 
mouse 
Behind the mouldering wainscot 
shriek'd, 
Or from the crevice peer'd about. 
Old faces glimmer' d thro' the doors, 
Old footsteps trod the upper floors, 
Old voices called her from without. 
She only said, "My life is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said ; 
She said, 'I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead ! " 



The sparrows chirrup on the roof, 

The slow clock ticking, and the sound 
Which to the wooing wind aloof 

The poplar made, did all confound 

Her sense ; but most she loathed the 

hour 

When the thick-moated sunbeam lay 

Athwart the chambers, and the day 

Was sloping toward his western bower. 

Then, said she, " I arnr^ry dreary, 

He will not come, s?:;e said; 

She wept, " I am aweary, aweary, 

Oh, God, that I were dead ! " 



MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 

With one black shadow at its feet, 

The house thro' all the level shines, 
Close-latticed to the brooding heat, 

And silent in its dusty vines : 
A faint-blue ridge upon the right, 
An empty river-bed before, 
And shallows on a distant shore, 
In glaring sand and inlets bright. 

But " Ave Mary," made she moan, 
And "Ave Mary," night and 
morn, 
And " Ah," she sang, " to be all 
alone, 
To live forgotten, and love for- 
lorn." 

She, as her carol sadder grew, 

From brow and bosom slowly down 
Thro' rosy taper fingers drew 

Her streaming curls of deepest 
brown 
To left and right, and made appear 
Still-lighted in a secret shrine, 
Her melancholy eyes divine, 
The home of woe without a tear. 

And " Ave Mary," was her moan, 
" Madonna, sad is night and 
morn," 
And " Ah," she sang, " to be all 
alone, 
To live forgotten, and love for- 
lorn." 

Till all the crimson changed, and past 
Into deep orange o'er the sea, 



10 



TO 



Low on her knees herself she cast, 

Before Our Lady murmur'd she ; 

Complaining, " Mother, give me grace 

To help me of my weary load." 

And on the liquid mirror glow'd 

The clear perfection of her face. 

" Is this the form," she made her 
moan, 
" That won his praises night 
ott\\ morn 1 " 
And ''" iUi," she said, " but I wake 
alone, 
I sleep forgotten, I wake for- 
lorn." 

Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would 
bleat, 
Nor any cloud would cross the vault, 
Eut day increased from heat to heat, 
On stony drought and steaming salt; 
Till now at noon she slept again, 
And seem'd knee-deep in mountain 

grass, 
And heard her native breezes pass, 
And runlets babbling down the glen. 
She breathed in sleep a lower 
moan, 
And murmuring, as at night and 
morn, 
She thought, " My spirit is here 

alone, 
Walks forgotten, and is forlorn." 

Dreaming, she knew it was a dream : 
She felt he was and was not there. 
She woke : the babble of the stream 

Fell, and, without, the steady glare 
Shrank one sick willow sear and small. 
The river-bed was dusty-white ; 
And all the furnace of the light 
Struck up against the blinding wall. 
She whisper'd, with a stifled moan 
More inward than at night or 
morn, 
" Sweet Mother, let me not here 
alone 
Live forgotten, and die forlorn." 

And, rising, from her bosom drew 

Old letters, breathing of her worth, 
For " Love," they said, " must needs 
be true, 



To what is loveliest upon earth." 
An image seem'd to pass the door, 
To look at her with slight, and say 
" But now thy beauty flows away, 
So be alone forevermore." 

" cruel heart," she changed her 
tone, 
" And cruel lovej whose end is 
scorn, 
Is this the end to be left alone, 
To live forgotten, and die for 
lorn ? " 

But sometimes in the falling day 

An image seem'd to pass the door, 
To look into her eyes and say, 

"But thou shalt be alone no more." 
And flaming downward over all 
From heat to heat the day decreased, 
And slowly rounded to the east 
The one black shadow from the wall. 
" The day to night," she made her 
moan, 
" The day to night, the night to 
morn, 
And day and night I am left alone 
To live forgotten, and love for- 
lorn." 

At eve a dry cicala sung, 

There came a sound as of the sea; 
Backward the lattice-blind she flung, 

And lean'd upon the balcony. 
There all in spaces rosy-bright 

Large Hesper glitter'd on her tears, 

And deepening thro' the silent 
spheres 
Heaven over Heaven rose the night. 
And weeping then she made her moan, 

"The night comes on that knows 
not morn, 
When I shall cease to be all alone, 

To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 



TO . 

Clear-headed friend, whose joyful 
scorn, 
Edged with sharp laughter, cuts 
atwain 



MADELINE. 



11 



The knots that tangle human 
creeds, 
The wounding cords that bind and 
strain 
The heart until it bleeds, 
Ray-fringed eyelids of the morn 

Roof not a glance so keen as thine : 
If aught of prophecy be mine, 
Thou wilt not live in vain. 



Low-cowering shall the Sophist sit; 
Falsehood shall bare her plaited 

brow : 
Fair-fronted Truth shall droop not 
now 
With shrilling shafts of subtle wit. 
Nor martyr - flames, nor trenchant 
swords 
Can do aAvay that ancient lie ; 
A gentler death shall Falsehood die, 
Shot thro' and thro' with cunning 
words. 

in. 
Weak Truth a-leaning on her crutch, 
Wan, wasted Truth in her utmost 

need, 
Thy kingly intellect shall feed, 
Until she be an athlete bold, 
And weary with a finger's touch 
Those writhed limbs of lightning 
speed ; 
Like that strange angel which of old, 

Until the breaking of the light, 
Wrestled with wandering Israel, 
Past Yabbok brook the livelong 
night, 
And heaven's mazed signs stood still 
In the dim tract of Penuel. 



MADELINE, 
i. 
Thou are not steep'd in golden lan- 
guors, 
No tranced summer calm is thine, 
Ever varying Madeline. 
Thro' light and shadow thou dost 

range, 
Sudden glances, sweet and strange, 
Delicious spites and darling angers, 
And airy forms of flitting change. 



Smiling, frowning, evermore, 
Thou art perfect in love-lore. 
Revealings deep and clear are thine 
Of wealthy smiles : but who may know 
Whether smile or frown be fleeter? 
Whether smile or frown be sweeter, 

Who may know ? 
Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow 
Light-glooming over eyes ,divine, 
Like little clouds sun-trfriged, are 
thine, 
Ever varying Madeline. 
Thy smile and frown are not aloof 
From one another, 
Each to each is dearest brother ; 
Hues of the silken sheeny woof 
Momently shot into each other. 
All the mystery is thine ; 
Smiling, frowning, evermore, 
Thou art perfect in love-lore, 
Ever varying Madeline. 



A subtle, sudden flame, 

By veering passion fann'd, 

About thee breaks and dances : 

When I would kiss thy hand, 
The flush of anger'd shame 

O'erflows thy calmer glances, 
And o'er black brows drops down 
A sudden-curved frown : 
But when I turn away, 
Thou, willing me to stay, 

Wooest not, nor vainly wranglest ; 
But, looking fixedly the while, 

All my bounding heart entanglest 
In a golden-netted smile ; 
Then in madness and in bliss, 
If my lips should dare to kiss 
Thy taper fingers amorously, 
Again thou blushest angerly ; 
And o'er black brows drops down 
A sudden-curved frown. 



SONG : THE OWL. 
i. 

When cats run home and light is come, 

And dew is cold upon the ground, 
And the far-off stream is dumb, 



12 



RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 



And the whirring sail goes round, 
And the whirring sail goes round ; 
Alone and warming his five wits, 
The white owl in the belfry sits. 



When merrymnilkmaids click the latch, 
And rarely smells the new-mown 
hay, 
And the cock hath sung beneath the 
tha/^h 
Twice or thrice his roundelay, 
Twice or thrice his roundelay ; 
Alone and warming his five wits, 
The white owl in the belfry sits 



SECOND SONG. 

TO THE SAME. 

Thy tuwhits are lull'd, I wot, 

Thy tuwhoos of yesternight, 
Which upon the dark afloat, 
So took echo with delight, 
So took echo with delight, 
That her voice untuneful grown, 
Wears all day a fainter tone. 



I would mock thy chant anew ; 

But I cannot mimic it ; 
Not a whit of thy tuwhoo, 
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, 
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, 
With a lengthen'd loud halloo, 
Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo- 



RECOLLECTIONS OF THE 

ARABIAN NIGHTS. 

When the breeze of a joyful dawn 

blew free 
In the silken sail of infancy, 
The tide of time flow'd back with me, 

The forward-flowing tide of time ; 
And many a sheeny summer-morn, 
A down the Tigris I was borne, 
By Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold, 
High-walled gardens green and old ; 
True Mussulman was I and sworn, 



For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Anight my shallop, rustling thro' 
The low and bloomed foliage, drove 
The fragrant, glistening deeps, and 

clove 
The citron-shadows in the blue : 
By garden porches on the brim, 
The costly doors flung open wide, 
Gold glittering thro' lamplight dim, 
And broider'd sofas on each side : 
In sooth it was a goodly time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Often, where clear-stemm'd platans 

guard 
The outlet, did I turn away 
The boat-head down a broad canal 
From the main river sluiced, where all 
The sloping of the moon-lit sward 
Was damask-work, and deep inlay 
Of braided blooms unmown, which 

crept 
Adown to where the water slept. 
A goodly place, a goodly time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

A motion from the river won 
Eidged the smooth level, bearing on 
My shallop thro' the star-strown calm, 
Until another night in night 
I enter'd, from the clearer light, 
Imbower'd vaults of pillar'd palm, 
Imprisoning sweets, which, as they 

clomb 
Heavenward, were stay'd beneath the 
dome 
Of hollow boughs. — A goodly time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Still onward ; and the clear canal 
Is rounded to as clear a lake. 
From the green rivage many a fall 
Of diamond rillets musical, 
Thro' little crystal arches low 
Down from the central fountain's flow 
Fal I'll silver-chiming, seemed to shake 
The sparkling flints beneath the prow. 



RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 



13 



A goodly place, a goodly time, 

For it was in the golden prime 

Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Above thro' many a bowery turn 
A walk with vary-color'd shells 
Wander'd engrain'd. On either side 
All round about the fragrant marge 
From fluted vase, and brazen urn 
In order, eastern flowers large, 
Some dropping low their crimson bells 
Half-closed, and others studded wide 
With disks and tiars, fed the time 
With odor in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Far off, and where the lemon grove 
In closest coverture upsprung, 
The living airs of middle night 
Died round the bulbul as he sung ; 
Not he : but something which possess'd 
The darkness of the world, delight, 
Life, anguish, death, immortal love, 
Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress'd, 
Apart from place, withholding time, 
But flattering the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Black the garden-bowers and grots 
Slumber'd: the solemn palms were 

ranged 
Above, unwoo'd of summer wind : 
A sudden splendor from behind 
Flusb/d all the leaves with rich gold- 
green, 
And, flowing rapidly between 
Their interspaces, counterchanged 
The level lake with diamond-plots 
Of dark and bright. A lovely time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead, 
Distinct with vivid stars inlaid, 
Grew darker from that under-flame . 
So, leaping lightly from the boat, 
With silver anchor left afloat, 
In marvel whence that glory came 
Upon me, as in sleep I sank 
In cool soft turf upon the bank, 
Entranced with that place and time, 
So worthy of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 



Thence thro' the garden I was drawn — 
A realm of pleasance, many a mound. 
And many a shadow-checker'd lawn 
Full of the city's stilly sound, 
And deep myrrh-thickets blowing 

round 
The stately cedar, tamarisks, 
Thick rosaries of scented thorn, 
Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks 
Graven with emblems of the time, 
In honor of the golden fwime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

With dazed visions unawares 
From the long alley's latticed shade 
Emerged, I came upon the great 
Pavilion of the Caliphat. 
Eight to the carven cedarn doors, 
Flung inward over spangled floors, 
Broad-based flights of marble stairs 
Han up with golden balustrade, 
After the fashion of the time, 
And humor of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

The fourscore windows all alight 
As with the quintessence of flame, 
A million tapers flaring bright 
From twisted silvers look'd to shame 
The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream'd 
Upon the mooned domes aloof 
In inmost Bagdat, till there seem'd 
Hundreds of crescents on the roof 

Of night new-risen, that marvellous 
time 

To celebrate the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Then stole I up, and trancedly 
Gazed on the Persian girl alone, 
Serene With argent-lidded eyes 
Amorous, and lashes like to rays 
Of darkness, and a brow of pearl 
Tressed with redolent ebony, 
In many a dark delicious curl, 
Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone ; 
The sweetest lady of the time, 
Well worthy of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Airaschid. 

Six columns, three on either side, 
Pure silver, underprop t a rich 
Throne of the massive ore, from which 



14 



ODE TO MEMORY. 



Down-droop'd, in many a floating fold, 

Engarlanded and diaper'd 

With inwrought flowers, a cloth of 

gold. 
Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirr'd 
With merriment of kingly pride, 
Sole star of all that place and time, 
I saw him — in his golden prime, 
The Good Haroun Alraschid. 



ODE TO MEMORY. 

ADDRESSED TO . 

I. 

Thou who stealest fire, 
From the fountains of the past, 
To glorify the present; oh, haste, 

Visit my low desire ! 
Strengthen me, enlighten me ! 
I faint in this obscurity, 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



Come not as thou earnest of late, 
Flinging the gloom of yesternight 
On the white day ; but robed in soft- 
en'd light 
Of orient state. 
Whilom thou earnest with the morn- 
ing mist, 
Even as a maid, whose stately brow 
The dew-impearled winds of dawn 
have kiss'd. 
When, she, as thou, 
Stays on her floating locks the lovely 

freight 
Of overflowing blooms, and earliest 

shoots 
Of orient green, giving safe pledge of 

fruits, 
Which in wintertide shall star 
The black earth with brilliance rare. 



Whilom thou earnest with the morn- 
ing mist, 
And with the evening cloud, 

Showering thy gleaned wealth into my 
open breast 

(Those peerless flowers which in the 
rudest wind 



Never grow sear, 
When rooted in the garden of the 

mind, 
Because they are the earliest of the 

year). 
Nor was the night thy shroud. 
In sweet dreams softer than unbroken 

rest 
Thou leddest by the hand thine infant 

Hope. 
The eddying of her garments caught 

from thee 
The light of thy great presence ; and 

the cope 
Of the half-attain'd futurity, 
Tho' deep not fathomless, 
Was cloven with the million stars 

which tremble 
O'er the deep mind of dauntless in- 
fancy. 
Small thought was there of life's dis- 
tress ; 
For sure she deem'd no mist of earth 

could dull 
Those spirit-thrilling eyes so keen and 

beautiful : 
Sure she was nigher to heaven's 

spheres, 
Listening the lordly music flowing 

from 
The illimitable years. 

strengthen me, enlighten me 1 

1 faint in this obscurity, 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



Come forth, I charge thee, arise, 
Thou of the many tongues, the myriad 

eyes ! 
Thou comest not with showers of 
flaunting vines 
Unto mine inner eye, 
Divinest Memory ! 
Thou wert not nursed by the water- 
fall 
Which ever sounds and shines 

A pillar of white light upon the wall 
Of purple cliffs, aloof descried : 
Come from the woods that belt the 

gray hill-side, 
The seven eims, the poplars four 
That stand beside my father's door, 



SONG. 



IS 



And chiefly from the brook that loves 

To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed 
sand, 

Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves, 

Drawing into his narrow earthen urn, 
In every elbow and turn, 

The filter'd tribute of the rough wood- 
land, 
O ! hither lead thy feet ! 

Pour round mine ears the livelong 
bleat 

Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wat- 
tled folds, 
Upon the ridged wolds, 

When the first matin-song hath 
waken' d loud 

Over the dark dewy earth forlorn, 

What time the amber morn 

Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung 
cloud. 



Large dowries doth the raptured eye 
To the young spirit present 
When first she is wed ; 

And like a bride of old 
In triumph led, 

Withmusicandsweetshowers 
Of festal flowers, 
Unto the dwelling she must sway. 
Well hast thou done, great artist 
Memory, 
In setting round thy first experiment 
With royal frame-workof wrought 
gold; 
Needs must thou dearly love thy first 

essay, 
And foremost in thy various gallery 
Place it, where sweetest sunlight 

falls 
Upon the storied walls ; 
For the discovery 
And newness of thine art so pleased 

thee, 
That all which thou hast drawn of 
fairest 
Or boldest since, but lightly weighs 
With thee unto the love thou bearest 
The first-born of thy genius. Artist- 
like, 
Ever retiring thou dost gaze 
On the prime labor of thine early days : 



No matter what the sketch might be ; 

Whether the high field on the bush- 
less Pike, 

Or even a sand-built ridge 

Of heaped hills that mound the sea, 

Overblown with murmurs harsh, 

Or even a lowly cottage whence we see 

Stretch'd wide and wild the waste 
enormous marsh, 

Where from the frequent^bridge, 

Like emblems of infinity, 

The trenched waters run from sky to 
sky; 

Or a garden bower'd close 

With plaited alleys of the trailing rose, 

Long alleys falling down to twilight 
grots, 

Or opening upon level plots 

Of crowned lilies, standing near 

Purple-spiked lavender : 

Whither in after life retired 

From brawling storms, 

From weary wind, 

With youthful fancy re-inspired, 

We may hold converse with all 
forms 

Of the many-sided mind, 

And those whom passion hath not 
blinded, 

Subtle-thoughted, myriad-minded. 

My friend, with you to live alone, 
Were how much better than to own 
A crown, a sceptre, and a throne ! 

strengthen me, enlighten me ! 

1 faint in this obscurity, 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



SONG. 



A spirit haunts the year's last hours 
Dwelling amid these yellowing 
bowers : 
To himself he talks ; 
For at eventide, listening earnestly, 
At his work you may hear him sob and 
sigh 
In the walks ; 

Earthward he boweth the heavy 
stalks 



16 



A CHARACTER. 



Of the mouldering flowers : 

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 
Over its grave i' the earth so 

chilly; 
Heavily hangs the hollyhock, 
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 



The air is damp, and hush'd, and close, 
As a sick morn's room when he taketh 
repose 
An hour before death ; 
My very heart faints and my whole 

soul grieves 
At the moist rich smell of the rotting 
leaves, 
And the breath 

Of the fading edges of box 
beneath, 
And the year's last rose. 

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 
Over its grave i' the earth so 
chilly; 
Heavily hangs the hollyhock, 
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily 



A CHARACTER. 

With a half-glance upon the sky 
At night he said, " The wanderings 
Of this most intricate Universe 
Teach me the nothingness of things." 
Yet could not all creation pierce 
Beyond the bottom of his eye. 

He spake of beauty ; that the dull 
Saw no divinity in grass, 
Life in dead stones, or spirit in air ; 
Then looking as 'twere in a glass, 
He smooth'd his chin and sleek'd his 

hair, 
And said the earth was beautiful. 

He spake of virtue : not the gods 
More purely, when they wish to charm 
Pallas and Juno sitting by : 
And with a sweeping of the arm, 
And a lack-lustre dead-blue eye, 
Devolved his rounded periods. 



Most delicately hour by hour 
He canvass'd human mysteries, 
And trod on silk, as if the winds 
Blew his own praises in his eyes, 
And stood aloof from other minds 
In impotence of fancied power. 

With lips depress'd as he were meek, 
Himself unto himself he sold : 
Upon himself himself did feed: 
Quiet, dispassionate, and cold, 
And other than his form of creed, 
With chisell'cl features clear and sleek. 



THE POET. 

The poet in a golden clime was born, 

With golden stars above; 
Dower'd with the hate of hate, the 
scorn of scoriij 
The love of love. 

He saw thro' life and death, thro' 
good and ill, 
He saw thro' his own soul, 
The marvel of the everlasting will 
An open scroll, 

Before him lay : with echoing feet he 

threaded 

The secretest walks of fame : 

The viewless arrows of his thoughts 

were headed 

And wing'd with flame, 

Like Indian reeds blown from his sil- 
ver tongue, 
And of so fierce a flight, 
From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung 
Filling with light 

And vagrant melodies the winds which 
bore 
Them earthward till they lit ; 
Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field 
flower, 
The fruitful wit 

Cleaving, took root, and springing 
forth anew 
Where'er they fell, behold, 



THE POET'S MIND. 



17 



Like to the mother plant in sem- 
blance, grew 
A flower all gold, 

And bravely furnish'd all abroad to 
fling 
Thy winged shafts of truth, 
To throng with stately blooms the 
breathing spring 
Of Hope and Youth. 

So many minds did gird their orbs 
with beams, 
Tho* one did fling the fire. 
Heaven flow'd upon the soul in many 
dreams 
Of high desire. 

Thus truth was multiplied on truth, 
the world 
Like one great garden show'd, 
And thro' the wreaths of floating dark 
upcurl'd, 
Rare sunrise flow'd. 

And Freedom rear'd in that august 
sunrise 
Her beautiful bold brow, 
When rites and forms before his burn- 
ing eyes 
Melted like snow. 

There was no blood upon her maiden 
robes 
Sunn'd by those orient skies ; 
But round about the circles of the 
globes 
Of her keen eyes 

And in her raiment's hem was traced 
in flame 
Wisdom, a name to shake 
All evil dreams of power — a sacred 
name. 
And when she spake, 

Her words did gather thunder as they 
ran, 
And as the lightning to the thun- 
der 
Which follows it, riving the spirit of 
man, 
Making earth wonder, 



So was their meaning to her words. 
No sword 
Of wrath her right arm whirl'd, 
But one poor poet's scroll, and with 
his word 
She shook the world. 



THE POET'S MIND. 

Vex not thou the poet's mind 

With thy shallow wit : 
Vex not thou the poet's mind ; 

For thou canst not fathom it. 
Clear and bright it should be ever, 
Flowing like a crystal river ; 
Bright as light, and clear as wind. 



Dark-brow'd sophist, come not anear ; 
All the place is holy ground ; 
Hollow smile and frozen sneer 

Come not here. 
Holy water will I pour 
Into every spicy flower 
Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it 

around. 
The flowers would faint at your cruel 
cheer. 
In your eye there is death, 
There is frost in your breath 
Which would blight the plants. 
Where you stand you cannot hear 
From the groves within 
The wild-bird's din. 
In the heart of the garden the merry 

bird chants. 
It would fall to the ground if you came 
in. 
In the middle leaps a fountain 
Like sheet lightning, 
Ever brightening 
With a low melodious thunder ; 
All day and all night it is ever drawn 
From the brain of the purple moun- 
tain 
Which stands in the distance yon- 
der : 
It springs on a level of bowery lawn, 
And the mountain draws it from 
Heaven above, 



IS 



THE SEA-FATRIES. 



And it sings a song of undying love ; 
And yet, tho* its voice be so clear and 

full, 
You never would hear it; your ears 

are so dull; 
So keep where you are : you are foul 

with sin ; 
It would shrink to the earth if you 

came in. 



THE SEA-FAIRIES. 

Slow sail'd the weary mariners and 
saw, 

Betwixt the green brink and the run- 
ning foam, 

Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms 
prest 

To little harps of gold ; and while they 
mused 

Whispering to each other half in fear, 

Shrill music reached them on the mid- 
dle sea. 

Whither away, whither away, whither 

away ? fly no more. 
Whither away from the high green 
field, and the happy blossoming 
shore ? 
Day and night to the billow the foun- 
tain calls : 
Down shower the gambolling water- 
falls 
From wandering over the lea : 
Out of the live-green heart of the dells 
They freshen the silvery- crimson 

shells, 
And thick with white bells the clover- 
hill swells 
High over the full-toned sea : 
O hither, come hither and furl your 

sails, 
Come hither to me and to me : 
Hither, come hither and frolic and 

Play; 
Here it is only the mew that wails ; 
We will sing to you all the day : 
Mariner, mariner, furl your sails, 
For here are the blissful downs and 

dales, 
And merrily, merrily carol the gales, 



And the spangle dances in bight and 

bay, 
And the rainbow forms and flies on 

the land 
Over the islands free ; 
And the rainbow lives in the curve of 

the sand ; 
Hither, come hither and see ; 
And the rainbow hangs on the poising 

wave, 
And sweet is the color of cove and 

cave, 
And sweet shall your welcome be : 
O hither, come hither, and be our 

lords, 
For merry brides are we : 
We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak 

sweet words : 
O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
With pleasure and love and jubilee : 
O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
When the sharp clear twang of the 

golden chords 
Runs up the ridged sea. 
Who can light on as happy a shore 
All the world o'er, all the world o'er 1 
Whither away ? listen and stay : 

mariner, mariner, fly no more. 



THE DESERTED HOUSE, 
i. 
Life and Thought have gone away 

Side by side, 

Leaving door and windows wide : 
Careless tenants they ! 

ii. 

All within is dark as night • 
In the windows is no light ; 
And no murmur at the door, 
So frequent on its hinge before. 

in. 

Close the door, the shutters close, 
Or thro' the windows we shall see 
The nakedness and vacancy 

Of the dark deserted house. 



Come away : no more of mirth 

Is here or merry-making sound. 



THE DYING SWAN. 



19 



The house was builded of the earth, 
And shall fall again to ground. 



Come away: for Life and Thought 

Here no longer dwell; 
But in a city glorious — 
A great and distant city — hare bought 

A mansion incorruptible. 
Would they could have staid with us 1 



THE DYING SWAN. 



The plain was grassy, wild and bare, 
Wide, wild, and open to the air, 
Which had built up everywhere 
An under-roof of doleful gray. 
With an inner voice the river ran, 
Adown it floated a dying swan, 

And loudly did lament. 
It was the middle of the day. 
Ever the weary wind went on, 

And took the reed-tops as it went. 



Some blue peaks in the distance rose, 
And white against the cold-white sky, 
Shone out their crowning snows. 

One willow over the river wept, 
And shook the wave as the wind did 

sigh; 
Above in the wind was the swallow, 
Chasing itself at its own wild will, 
And far thro' the marish green 

and still 
The tangled water-courses slept, 
Shot ovei with purple, and green, and 
yellow. 



The mid swan's death-hymn took the 

soul 
Of that waste place with joy 
Hidden in sorrow : at first to the ear 
The warble was low, and full and 

clear ; 
And floating about the under-sky, 
Prevailing in weakness, the coronach 

stole 



Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear ; 

But anon her awful jubilant voice, 

With a music strange and manifold, 

Flow'd forth on a carol free and bold ; 

As when a mighty people rejoice 

With shawms, and with cymbals, and 
harps of gold, 

And the tumult of their acclaim is 
roll'd 

Thro' the open gates of the city afar, 

To the shepherd who v.&tcheth the 
evening star. 

And the creeping mosses and clamber- 
ing weeds, 

And the willow-branches hoar and 
dank, 

And the wavy swell of the soughing 
reeds, 

And the wave-worn horns of the echo- 
ing bank, 

And the silvery marish-flowers that 
throng 

The desolate creeks and pools among, 

Were flooded over with eddying song. 



A DIRGE. 



i. 



Now is done thy long day's work j 
Fold thy palms across thy breast, 
Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest. 

Let them rave. 
Shadows of the silver birk 
Sweep the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

ii. 

Thee nor carketh care nor slander; 
Nothing but the small cold worm 
Fretteth thine enshrouded form. 

Let them rave. 
Light and shadow ever wander 
O'er the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed; 
Chanteth not the brooding bee 
Sweeter tones than calumny 1 
Let them rave. 



20 



LOVE AND DEATH. 



Thou wilt never raise thine head 
From the green that folds thy grave. 
Let them rave. 



Crocodiles wept tears for thee ; 

The woodbine and eglatere 

Drip sweeter dews than traitor's tear. 

Let them rave. 
Eain makes music in the tree 
O'er the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



Round thee blow, self-pleached deep, 
Bramble roses, faint and pale, 
And long purples of the dale. 

Let them rave. 
These in every shower creep 
Thro' the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



The gold-eyed kingcups fine ; 
The frail bluebell peereth over 
Rare broidry of the purple clover. 

Let them rave. 
Kings have no such couch as thine, 
As the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



Wild words wander here and there 
God's great gift of speech abused 
Makes thy memory confused : 

But let them rave. 
The balm-cricket carols clear 
In the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



LOVE AND DEATH. 

What time the mighty moon was 
gathering light 

Love paced the thymy plots of Para- 
dise, 

And all about him rolPd his lustrous 
eyes; 

When, turning round a cassia, full in 
view, 

Death, walking all alone beneath a 
yew, 



And talking to himself, first met his 

sight : 
" You must begone," said Death, 

" these walks are mine." 
Love wept and spread his sheeny vans 

for flight ; 
Yet ere he parted said, " This hour is 

thine : 
Thou art the shadow of life, and as 

the tree 
Stands in the sun and shadows all 

beneath, 
So in the light of great eternity 
Life eminent creates the shade of 

death ; 
The shadow passeth when the tree 

shall fall, 
But I shall reign forever over all." 



THE BALLAD OF ORIANA. 
My heart is wasted with my woe, 

Oriana. 
There is no rest for me below, 

Oriana. 
When the long dun wolds are ribb'd 

with snow, 
And loud the Norland whirlwinds 
blow, 

Oriana, 
Alone I wander to and fro, 
Oriana. 

Ere the light on dark was growing, 

Oriana, 
At midnight the cock was crowing, 

Oriana : 
Winds were blowing, waters flowing, 
We heard the steeds to battle going, 

Oriana ; 
Aloud the hollow bugle blowing, 

Oriana. 

In the yew-wood black as night, 

Oriana, 
Ere I rode into the fight, 

Oriana, 
While blissful tears blinded my sight 
By star-shine and by moonlight, 

Oriana, 
I to thee my troth did plight, 

Oriana. 



CIR C UMS TANCE. 



21 



She stood upon the castle wall, 

Oriana : 
She watch'd my crest among them all, 

Oriana : 
She saw me fight, she heard me call, 
When forth there stept a foeman tall, 

Oriana, 
Atween me and the castle wall, 

Oriana. 

The bitter arrow went aside, 

Oriana : 
The false, false arrow went aside, 

Oriana : 
The damned arrow glanced aside, 
And pierced thy heart, my love, my 
bride, 

Oriana ! 
Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, 

Oriana ! 

Oh ! narrow, narrow was the space, 

Oriana. 
Loud, loud rung out the bugle's brays, 

Oriana. 
Oh ! deathful stabs were dealt apace, 
The battle deepen'd in its place, 

Oriana ; 
But I was down upon my face, 

Oriana. 

They should have stabb'd me where I 
lay, 

Oriana ! 
How could I rise and come away, 

Oriana ? 
How could I look upon the day ? 
They should have stabb'd me where I 
lay, 

Oriana — 
They should have trod me into clay, 

Oriana. 

breaking heart that will not break, 

Oriana ! 
O pale, pale face so sweet and meek, 

Oriana ! 
Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak, 
And then the tears run down my cheek, 

Oriana : 
What wantest thou % whom dost thou 
seek, 

Oriana ? 



I cry aloud : none hear my cries, 

Oriana. 
Thou comest atween me and the skies, 

Oriana. 
I feel the tears of blood arise 
Up from my heart unto my eyes, 

Oriana. 
Within thy heart my arrow lies, 

Oriana. 

cursed hand ! cursed blow ! 
Oriana ! 

happy thou that liest low, 

Oriana ! 
All night the silence seems to flow 
Beside me in my utter woe, 

Oriana. 
A weary, weary way I go, 

Oriana. 

When Norland winds pipe down the 
sea, 

Oriana, 

1 walk, I dare not think of thee, 

Oriana. 
Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, 
I dare not die and come to thee, 

Oriana. 
I hear the roaring of the sea, 

Oriana. 



CIRCUMSTANCE. 

Two children in two neighbor villages 

Playing mad pranks along the heathy- 
leas ; 

Two strangers meeting at a festival ; 

Two lovers whispering by an orchard 
wall ; 

Two lives bound fast in one with 
golden ease; 

Two graves grass-green beside a gray 
church-tower, 

Wash'd with still rains and daisy blos- 
somed ; 

Two children in one hamlet born and 
bred ; 

So runs the round of life from hour 
to hour. 



22 



THE MERMAN. 



THE MERMAN, 
i. 

Who would be 

A merman bold, 

Sitting alone, 

Singing alone 

Under the sea, 

With a crown of gold, 

On a throne ? 
I 

ii. 

I Avould be a merman bold, 

I would sit and sing the whole of the 
day ; 

I would fill the sea-halls with a voice 
of power; 

But at night I would roam abroad and 
play 

With the mermaids in and out of the 
rocks, 

Dressing their hair with the white sea- 
flower ; 

And holding them back hy their flow- 
ing locks 

I would kiss them often under the sea, 

And kiss them again till they kiss'd 
me 
Laughingly, laughingly ; 

And then we would wander away, away 

To the pale-green sea-groves straight 
and high, 
Chasing each other merrily. 



There would be neither moon nor star ; 

But the wave would make music above 
us afar — 

Low thunder and light in the magic 
night — 
Neither moon nor star. 

We would call aloud in the dreamy 
dells, 

Call to each other and whoop and cry 
All night, merrily, merrily ; 

They would pelt me with starry span- 
gles and shells, 

Laughing and clapping their hands 
between, 
All night, merrily, merrily : 

But I would throw to them back in 



Turkis and agate and almondine : 
Then leaping out upon them unseen 
I would kiss them often under the sea, 
And kiss them again till they kiss'd me 

Laughingly, laughingly. 
Oh ! what a happy life were mine 
Under the hollow-hung ocean green ! 
Soft are the moss-beds under the sea ; 
We would live merrily, merrily. 



THE MERMAID. 

i. 
Who would be 
A mermaid fair, 
Singing alone, 
Combing her hair 
Under the sea, 
In a golden curl 
With a comb of pearl, 
On a throne 1 



I would be a mermaid fair ; 
I would sing to myself the whole of 

the day; 
With a comb of pearl I would comb 

my hair ; 
And still as I comb'd I would sing and 

say, 
" Who is it loves me 1 who loves not 

me?" 
I would comb my hair till my ringlets 
would fall 

Low adown, low adown, 
Erom under my starry sea-bud crown 

Low adown and around, 
And I should look like a fountain of 
gold 

Springing alone 
With a shrill inner sound, 

Over the throne 
In the midst of the hall ; 
Till that great sea-snake under the sea 
Erom his coiled sleeps in the central 

deeps 
Would slowly trail himself sevenfold 
Round the hall where I sate, and look 

in at the gate 
With his large calm eyes for the love 
of me. 



ADELINE. 



23 



And all the mermen under the sea 

Would feel their immortality 

Die in their hearts for the love of me. 



But at night I would wander away, 

away, 
I would fling on each side my low- 
flowing locks, 
And lightly vault from the throne and 

play 
With the mermen in and out of the 

rocks ; 
We would run to and fro, and hide 

and seek, 
On the broad sea-wolds in the crim- 
son shells, 
Whose silvery spikes are nighest the 

sea. 
But if any came near I would call, and 

shriek, 
And adown the steep like a wave I 

would leap 
From the diamond-ledges that jut 

from the dells ; 
For I would not be kiss'd by all who 

would list, 
Of the bold merry mermen under the 

sea; 
They would sue me, and woo me, and 

flatter me, 
In the purple twilights under the 

sea; 
But the king of them all would carry 

me, 
Woo me, and win me, and marry 

me, 
In the branching jaspers under the 

sea; 
Then all the dry pied things that be 
In the hueless mosses under the sea 
Would curl round my silver feet 

silently, 
All looking up for the love of me. 
And if I should carol aloud, from aloft 
All things that are forked, and horned, 

and soft 
Would lean out from the hollow sphere 

of the sea, 
All looking down for the love of 

me. 



ADELINE. 

i. 
Mtstetiy of mysteries, 

Faintly smiling Adeline, 
Scarce of earth nor all divine, 
Nor unhappy, nor at rest, 

But beyond expression fair 
With thy floating flaxen hair ; 
Thy rose-lips and full blue eyes 

Take the heart front' out my 
breast. 
Wherefore those dim looks of thine, 
Shadowy, dreaming Adeline 1 



Whence that aery bloom of thine, 
Like a lily which the sun 

Looks thro' in his sad decline, 
And a rose-bush leans upon, 

Thou that faintly smilest still, 
As a Naiad in a well, 
Looking at the set of day, 

Or a phantom two hours old 
Of a maiden past away, 

Ere the placid lips be cold 1 

Wherefore those faint smiles of 
thine, 
Spiritual Adeline ? 



What hope or fear or joy is thine ? 
Who talketh with thee, Adeline ? 
For sure thou art not all alone. 
Do beating hearts of salient 
springs 
Keep measure with thine own ? 

Hast thou heard the butterflies 
What they say betwixt their 

wings ? 
Or in stillest evenings 
With what voice the violet woos 
To his heart the silver dews ? 
Or when little airs arise, 
How the merry bluebell rings 
To the mosses underneath ? 
Hastthoulook'duponthebreath 
Of the lilies at sunrise ? 
Wherefore that faint smile of thine. 
Shadowy, dreamy Adeline ? 



24 



MARGARET. 



Some honey-converse feeds thy mind, 
Some spirit of a crimson rose 
In love with thee forgets to close 
His curtains, wasting odorous sighs 
All night long on darkness blind. 
What aileth thee 1 whom waitest thou 
With thy soften'd, shadow'd brow, 
And those dew-lit eyes of thine, 
ThouXaint smiler, Adeline % 



Lovest thou the doleful wind 

Wlien thou gazest at the skies 1 
Doth the low-tongued Orient 

Wander from the side of the 
morn, 
Dripping with Sabssan spice 
On thy pillow, lowly bent 

With melodious airs lovelorn, 
Breathing Light against thy face, 
While his locks a-drooping twined 

Round thy neck in subtle ring 
Make a carcanet of rays, 

And ye talk together still, 
In the language wherewith Spring 
Letters cowslips on the hill 1 
Hence that look and smile of thine, 
Spiritual Adeline. 



MARGARET, 
i. 

O sweet pale Margaret, 

O rare pale Margaret, 

What lit your eyes with tearful power, 

Like moonlight on a falling shower 1 

Who lent you, love, your mortal dower 

Of pensive thought and aspect 

pale, 
Your melancholy sweet and frail 
As perfume of the cuckoo-flower ? 
From the westward-winding flood, 
From the evening-lighted wood, 

From all things outward you have 
won 
A tearful grace, as tho' you stood 

Between the rainbow and the sun. 
The very smile before you speak, 
That dimples your transparent 
cheek, 



Encircles all the heart, and feedeth. 
The senses with a still delight 

Of dainty sorrow without sound, 
Like the tender amber round, 
Which the moon about her spread- 
eth, 
Moving thro' a fleecy night. 



You love, remaining peacefully, 

To hear the murmur of the strife, 
But enter not the toil of life. 
Your spirit is the calmed sea, 

Laid by the tumult of the fight. 
You are the evening star, alway 

Remaining betwixt dark and 
bright : 
Lull'd echoes of laborious day 

Come to you, gleams of mellow 

light 
Float by you on the verge of 
night. 

in. 
What can it matter, Margaret, 

What songs below the waning 
stars 
The lion-heart, Plantagenet, 

Sang looking thro* his prison 
bars ? 
Exquisite Marge' et, who can 
tell 
The last wild thought of Chatelet, 
Just ere the falling axe did part 
The burning brain from the true 
heart, 
Even in her sight he loved so 
well? 

IV. 

A fairy shield your Genius made 

And gave you on your natal day 
Your sorrow, only sorrow's shade, 

Keeps real sorrow far away. 
You move not in such solitudes, 

You are not less divine, 
But more human in your moods, 

Than your twin-sister, Adeline. 
Your hair is darker, and your eyes 

Touch'd with a somewhat darker 
hue, 

And less aerially blue, 



ROSALIND. 



25 



But ever-trembling thro' the dew 
Of dainty-woful sympathies. 



sweet pale Margaret, 
O rare pale Margaret, 
Come down, come down, and hear me 

speak : 
Tie up the ringlets on your cheek : 

The sun is just about to set, 
The arching limes are tall and shady, 
And faint, rainy lights are seen, 
Moving in the leavy beech. 
Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady, 
Where all day long you sit 
between 
Joy and woe, and whisper each. 
Or only look across the lawn, 

Look out below your bower-eaves, 
Look down, and let your blue eyes 
dawn 
Upon me thro' the jasmine-leaves. 



ROSALIND, 
i. 

My Rosalind, my Rosalind, 

My frolic falcon, with bright eyes, 

Whose free delight, from any height 

of rapid flight, 
Stoops at all game that wing the skies, 
My Rosalind, my Rosalind, 
My bright-eyed, wild-eyed falcon 

whither, 
Careless both of wind and weather, 
Whither fly ye, what game spy ye, 
Up or down the streaming wind ? 



The quick lark's closest-caroll'd 

strains, 
The shadow rushing up the sea, 
The lightning flash atween the rains, 
The sunlight driving down the lea, 
The leaping stream, the very wind, 
That will not stay, upon his way, 
To stoop the cowslip to the plains, 
Is not so clear and bold and free 
As you, my falcon Rosalind. 
You care not for another's pains, 



Because you are the soul of joy, 

Bright metal all without alloy. 

Life shoots and glances thro* youi 

veins, 
And flashes off a thousand ways, 
Thro' lips and eyes in subtle rays. 
Your hawk-eyes are keen and bright, 
Keen with triumph, watching still 
To pierce me thro' with pointed light; 
But oftentimes they flash and glitter 
Like sunshine on a dancing rill, 
And your words are seeming-bitter, 
Sharp and few, but seeming-bitter 
From excess of swift delight. 

in. 

Come down, come home, my Rosalind, 
My gay young hawk, my Rosalind : 
Too long you keep the upper skies ; 
Too long you roam and wheel at will; 
But we must hood your random eyes, 
That care not whom theyJdll, 
And your cheek, whose brilliant hue 
Is so sparkling-fresh to view, 
Some red heath-flower in the dew, 
Touch'd with sunrise. We must bind 
And keep you fast, my Rosalind, 
Fast, fast, my wild-eyed Rosalind, 
And clip your wings, and make you 

love : 
When we have lured you from above, 
And that delight of frolic flight, by 

day or night, 
From North to South, 
We'll bind you fast in silken cords 
And kiss away the bitter words 
From off your rosy mouth. 



to 



ELEANORE. 

Thy dark eyes open'd not, 

Nor first reveal'd themselves 
English air, 
For there is nothing here, 
Which, from the outward to the inward 

brought, 
Moulded thy baby thought. 
Far off from human neighborhood, 
Thou wert born, on a summer 



26 



ELEANORE. 



A mile beneath the cedar-wood. 
Thy bounteous forehead was not 
fann'd 
With breezes from our oaken 
glades, 
But thou wert nursed in some delicious 
land 
Of lavish lights, and floating 
shades : ■ 
And flatter^g thy childish thought 
The oriental fairy brought, 
At the moment of thy birth, 
From old well-heads of haunted rills, 
And the hearts of purple hills, 

And shadow'd coves on a sunny 
shore, 
The choicest wealth of all the 
earth, 
Jewel or shell, or starry ore, 
To deck thy cradle, Eleanore. 



Or the yellow-banded bees, 
Thro' half-open lattices 
Coming in the scented breeze, 
Fed thee, a child, lying alone, 
With whitest honey in fairy gar- 
dens cuird — 
A glorious child, dreaming alone, 
In silk-soft folds, upon yielding 
down, 
With the hum of swarming bees 
Into dreamful slumber lulPd. 



Who may minister to thee? 
Summer herself should minister 
To thee, with fruitage golden-rinded 
On golden salvers, or it may be, 
Youngest Autumn, in a bower 
Grape-thicken'd from the light, and 
blinded 
With many a deep-hued bell-like 
flower 
Of fragrant trailers, when the air 
Sleepeth over all the heaven, 
And the crag that fronts the Even, 
All along the shadowing shore, 
Crimsons over an inland mere, 
Eleanore I 



How many full-sail'd verse express, 
How many measured words adore 
The full-flowing harmony 
Of thy swan-like stateliness, 
Eleanore "? 
The luxuriant symmetry 
Of thy floating gracefulness, 
Eleanore 1 
Every turn and glance of thine, 
Every lineament divine, 

Eleanore, 
And the steady sunset glow, 
That stays upon thee 'i Eor in thee 
Is nothing sudden, nothing single ; 
Like two streams of incense free 
Erom one censer in one shrine, 
Thought and motion mingle, 
Mingle ever. Motions flow 
To one another, even as tho* 
They were modulated so 

To an unheard melody, 
Which lives about thee, and a sweep 
Of richest pauses, evermore 
Drawn from each other mellow-deep ; 
Who may express thee, Eleanore ? 



I stand before thee, Eleanore ; 

I see thy beauty gradually unfold, 
Daily and hourly, more and more. 
I muse, as in a trance, the while 

Slowly, as from a cloud of gold, 
Comes out thy deep ambrosial smile. 
I muse, as in a trance, whene'er 

The languors of thy love-deep eyes 
Eloat on to me. I would I were 

So tranced, so rapt in ecstasies, 
To stand apart, and to adore, 
Gazing on thee forevermore, 
Serene, imperial Eleanore ! 



Sometimes, with most intensity 

Gazing, I seem to see 

Thought folded over thought, smiling 

asleep, 
Slowly awaken'd, grow so full and deep 
In thy large eyes, that, overpower'd 

quite, 



ELEANORE. 



27 



I cannot veil, or droop my sight, 

But am as nothing in its light : 

As tho' a star, in inmost heaven set, 

Ev'n while we gaze on it, 

Should slowly round his orb, and 

slowly grow 
To a full face, there like a sun remain 
Fix'd — then as slowly fade again, 
And draw itself to what it was 
before ; 
So full, so deep, so slow, 
Thought seems to come and go 
in thy large eyes, imperial Eleanore. 



As thunder-clouds that, hung on high, 
Roof'd the world with doubt and 
fear, 
Floating thro' an evening atmosphere, 
Grow golden all about the sky ; 
In thee all passion becomes passion- 
less, 
Touch'd by thy spirit's mellowness, 
Losing his fire and active might 

In a silent meditation, 
Falling into a still delight, 

And luxury of contemplation : 
As waves that up a quiet cove 
Rolling slide, and lying still 
Shadow forth the banks at will : 
Or sometimes they swell and move, 
Pressing up against the land, 
With motions of the outer sea : 
And the self-same influence 
Controlleth all the soul and sense 
Of Passion gazing upon thee. 
His bow-string slacken'd, languid Love, 
Leaning his cheek upon his hand, 
Droops both his wings, regarding 
thee, 
And so would languish evermore, 
Serene, imperial Eleanore. 



But when I see thee roam, with tresses 

unconfined, 
While the amorous, odorous wind 
Breathes low between the sunset 
and the moon; 
Or, in a shadowy saloon, 
On silken cushions half reclined ; 



I watch thy grace ; and in its 
place 
My heart a charm'd slumber 
keeps, 
While I muse upon thy face ; 
And a languid fire creeps 

Thro' my veins to all my frame, 
Dissolvingly and slowly : soon 

From thy rose-red lips my name 
Floweth ; and then, as in a swoon, 
With dinning sound ray ears are 
rife, 
My tremulous tongue f altereth, 
I lose my color, I lose my breath, 
I drink the cup of a costly death, 
Brimm'd with delirious draughts of 
warmest life. 
I die with my delight, before 
I hear what I would hear from 

thee; 
Yet tell my name again to me, 
I would be dying evermore, 
So dying ever, Eleanore. 



My life is full of weary days, 

But good things have not kept aloof, 

Nor wander'd into other ways : 

I have not lack'd thy mild reproof, 

Nor golden largess of thy praise. 

And now shake hands across the brink 
Of that deep grave to which I go : 

Shake hands once more : I cannot sink 
So far — far down, but I shall know 
Thy voice, and answer from below. 



When in the darkness over me 

The four-handed mole shall scrape, 

Plant thou no dusky cypress-tree, 
Nor wreathe thy cap with doleful 

crape, 
But pledge me in the flowing grape. 

And when the sappy field and wood 
Grow green beneath the showery 
gray, 
And rugged barks begin to bud, 



28 



EARLY SONNETS. 



And thro' damp holts new-flush'd 

with may, 
Ring sudden scritches of the jay, 

Then let wise Nature work her will, 
And on my clay her darnel grow ; 

Come only, when the days are still, 
And at my headstone whisper low, 
And tell me if the woodbines blow. 



SL 



EARLY SONNETS. 



TO . 

As when with downcast eyes we muse 

and brood, 
And ebb into a former life, or seem 
To lapse far back in some confused 

dream 
To states of mystical similitude ; 
If one but speaks or hems or stirs his 

chair, 
Ever the wonder waxeth more and 

more, 
So that we say, " All this hath been 

before, 
All this hath been, I know not when 

or where." 
So, friend, when first I look'd upon 

your face, 
Our thought gave answer each to each, 

so true — 
Opposed mirrors each reflecting each — 
That tho' I knew not in what time or 

place, 
Methought that I had often met with 

you, 
And either lived in either's heart and 

speech. 

ii. 

TO J. M. K. 

My hope and heart is with thee — thou 

wilt be 
A latter Luther, and a soldier-priest 
To scare church-harpies from the 

master's feast; 
Our dusted velvets have much need 

of thee : 
Thou art no sabbath-drawler of old 



Distill'd from some worm-canker'd 
homily ; 

But spurred at heart with fieriest energy 

To embattail and to wall about thy 
cause 

With iron-worded proof, hating to hark 

The humming of the drowsy pulpit- 
drone 

Half God's good sabbath, while the 
worn-out clerk 

Brow-beats his desk below. Thou 
from a throne 

Mounted in heaven wilt shoot into the 
dark 

Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and 
mark. 

in. 

Mine be the strength of spirit, full 
and free, 

Like some broad river rushing down 
alone, 

With the self -same impulse wherewith 
he was thrown 

From his loud fount upon the echoing 
lea: — 

Which with increasing might doth for- 
ward flee 

By town, and tower, and hill, and cape, 
and isle, 

And in the middle of the green salt sea 

Keeps his blue waters fresh for many 
a mile. 

Mine be the power which ever to its 
sway 

Will win the wise at once, and by 
degrees 

May into uncongenial spirits flow ; 

Ev'n as the warm gulf-stream of 
Florida 

Floats far away into the Northern seas 

The lavish growths of southern Mex- 
ico. 

IV. 

ALEXANDER. 
Warkior of God, whose strong right 

arm debased 
The throne of Persia, when her Satrap 

bled 
At Issus by the Syrian gates, or fled 
Beyond the Memmian naphtha-pit6. 

disgraced 



EARLY SONNETS. 



29 



Forever — thee (thy pathway sand- 
erased) 

Gliding with equal crowns two ser- 
pents led 

Joyful to that palm-planted fountain- 
fed 

Ammonian Oasis in the waste. 

There in a silent shade of laurel brown 

Apart the Chamian Oracle divine 

Shelter'd his unapproached mysteries : 

High things were spoken there, un- 
handed down; 

Only they saw thee from the secret 
shrine 

Returning with hot cheek and kindled 
eyes. 

v. 
BUONAPARTE. 

He thought to quell the stubborn 
hearts of oak, 

Madman ! — to chain with chains, and 
bind with bands 

That island queen who sways the floods 
and lands, 

From Ind to Ind, but in fair daylight 
woke, 

When from her wooden walls, — lit by 
sure hands, — 

With thunders, and with lightnings, 
and with smoke, — 

Peal after peal, the British battle 
broke, 

Lulling the brine against the Coptic 
sands. 

We taught him lowlier moods, when 
Elsinore 

Heard the war moan along the distant 
sea, 

Rocking with shatter'd spars, with 
sudden fires 

Flamed over : at Trafalgar yet once 
more 

We taught him : late he learned 
humility 

Perforce, like those whom Gideon 
schooled with briers. 

VI. 

POLAND. 
How long, God, shall men be ridden 
down, 



And trampled under by the last and 
least 

Of men ? The heart of Poland hath 
not ceased 

To quiver, tho' her sacred blood doth 
drown 

The fields, and out of every smoulder- 
ing town 

Cries to Thee, lest brute Power be in- 
creased, ii 

Till that o'ergrown Barbarian in the 
East 

Transgress his ample bound to some 
new crown : — 

Cries to Thee, " Lord, how long shall 
these things be 1 

How long this icy-hearted Muscovite 

Oppress the region ? " Us, O Just and 
Good, 

Forgive, who smiled when she was torn 
in three ; 

Us, who stand now, when we should 
aid the right — 

A matter to be wept with tears of 
blood! 



Caress'd or chidden by the slender 

hand, 
And singing airy trifles this or that, 
Light Hope at Beauty's call would 

perch and stand, 
And run thro' every change of sharp 

and flat ; 
And Fancy came and at her pillow sat, 
When Sleep had bound her in his rosy 

band, 
And chased away the still-recurring 

gnat, 
And woke her with a lay from fairy 

land. 
But now they live with Beauty less 

and less, 
For Hope is other Hope and wanders 

far, 
Nor cares to lisp in love's delicious 

creeds ; 
And Fancy watches in the wilderness, 
Poor Fancy sadder than a single 

star, 
That sets at twilight in a land of 

reeds. 



30 



EARLY SONNETS. 



The form, the form alone -is eloquent ! 

A nobler yearning never broke her 
rest 

Than but to dance and sing, be gayly 
drest, 

And win all eyes with all accomplish- 
ment : 

Yet in the Whirling dances as we went, 

My fancy made me for a moment blest 

To find my heart so near the beauteous 
breast 

That once had power to rob it of con- 
tent. 

A moment came the tenderness of 
tears, 

The phantom of a wish that once could 
move, 

A ghost of passion that no smiles re- 
store — 

For ah ! the slight coquette, she can- 
not love, 

And if you kiss'd her feet a thousand 
years, 

She still would take the praise, and 
care no more. 



Wan Sculptor, weepest thou to take 

the cast 
Of those dead lineaments that near 

thee lie 1 

sorrowest thou, pale Painter, for the 

past, 
In painting some dead friend from 

memory ? 
Weep on : beyond his object Love can 

last: 
His object lives : more cause to weep 

have I : 
My tears, no tears of love, are flowing 

fast, 
No tears of love, but tears that Love 

can die. 

1 pledge her not in any cheerful cup, 
Nor care to sit beside her where she 

sits — 
Ah pity — hint it not in human tones, 
But breathe it into earth and close it 

up 



With secret death forever, in the pits 
Which some green Christmas crams 
with weary bones. 



If I were loved, as I desire to be, 
What is there in the great sphere of 

the earth, 
And range of evil between death and 

birth, 
That I should fear, — if I were loved 

by thee 1 
All the inner, all the outer world of 

pain 
Clear Love would pierce and cleave, 

if thou wert mine, 
As I have heard that, somewhere in 

the main, 
Fresh-water springs come up through 

bitter brine. 
'Twere joy, not fear, claspt hand-in- 
hand with thee, 
To wait for death — mute — careless 

of all ills, 
Apart upon a mountain, tho' the surge 
Of some new deluge from a thousand 

hills 
Flung leagues of roaring foam into 

the gorge 
Below us, as far on as eye could see. 



THE BRIDESMAID. 
O bridesmaid, ere the happy knot 

was tied, 
Thine eyes so wept that they could 

hardly see ; 
Thy sister smiled and said, " No tears 

for me ! 
A happy bridesmaid makes a happy 

bride." 
And then, the couple standing side by 

side, 
Love lighted down between them full 

of glee, 
And over his left shoulder laugh'd at 

thee, 
" happy bridesmaid, make a happy 

bride." 
And all at once a pleasant truth I 

learn'd, 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 



31 



For while the tender service made thee 
weep, 

I loved thee for the tear thou couldst 
not hide, 

And prest thy hand, and knew the 
press returned, 

And thought, " My life is sick of sin- 
gle sleep : 

O happy bridesmaid, make a happy 
bride ! " 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 

PART I. 

On either side of the river lie 
Long fields of barley and of rye, 
That clothe the wold and meet the sky ; 
And thro' the field the road runs by 

To many-tower'd Camelot ; 
And up and down the people go, 
Gazing where the lilies blow 
Round an island there below 

The island of Shalott. 

Willows whiten, aspens quiver, 
Little breezes dusk and shiver 
Thro' the wave that runs forever 
By the island in the river 

Flowing down to Camelot. 
Four gray walls, and four gray towers, 
Overlook a space of flowers, 
And the silent isle embowers 

The Lady of Shalott. 

By the margin, willow-veiPd, 
Slide the heavy barges trail'd. 
By slow horses ; and unhail'd 
The shallop fiitteth silken-saiPd 

Skimming down to Camelot : 
But who hath seen her wave her hand? 
Or at the casement seen her stand 1 
Or is she known in all the land, 

The Lady of Shalott? 

Only reapers, reaping early 
In among the bearded barley, 
Hear a song that echoes cheerly 
From the river winding clearly, 

Down to tower'd Camelot : 
And by the moon the reaper weary, 



Piling sheaves in uplands airy, 
Listening, whispers " 'Tis the fairy 
Lady of Shalott." 



There she weaves by night and day 
A magic web with colors gay. 
She has heard a whisper say, 
A curse is on her if she st^y 

To look down to Camelot. 
She knows not what the curse may be 
And so she weaveth steadily, 
And little other care hath she, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

And moving thro' a mirror clear 
That hangs before her all the year, 
Shadows of the world appear. 
There she sees the highway near 

Winding down to Camelot : 
There the river eddy whirls, 
And there the surly village-churls, 
And the red cloaks of market girls, 

Pass onward from Shalott. 

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, 
An abbot on an ambling pad, 
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, 
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, 

Goes by to tower'd Camelot; 
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue 
The knights come riding two and two; 
She hath no loyal knight and true, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

But in her web she still delights 
To weave the mirror's magic sights, 
For often thro' the silent nights 
A funeral, with plumes and lights 

And music, went to Camelot : 
Or when the moon was overhead, 
Came two young lovers lately wed ; 
" I am half sick of shadows," said 

The Lady of Shalott. 

PART III. 

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, 
He rode between the barley-sheaves, 
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, 
And flamed upon the brazen greaves 
Of bold Sir Lancelot. 



32 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 



A red-cross knight forever kneel'd 
To a lady in his shield, 
That sparkled on the yellow field, 
Beside remote Shalott. 

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, 
Like to some branch of stars we see 
Hung in the golden Galaxy. 
The bridle l^ells rang merrily 

As he rode down to Camelot : 
And from his blazon' d baldric slung 
A mighty silver bugle hung, 
And as he rode his armor rung, 

Beside remote Shalott. 

All in the blue unclouded weather 
Thick-je weird shone the saddle- 
leather, 
The helmet and the helmet-feather 
Burn'd like one burningflame together, 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
As often thro' the purple night, 
Below the starry clusters bright, 
Some bearded meteor, trailing light, 

Moves over still Shalott. 

His broad clear brow in sunlight 

glow'd ; 
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse 

trode ; 
From underneath his helmet flow'd 
His coal-black curls as on he rode, 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
From the bank and from the river 
He flashed into the crystal mirror, 
" Tirra lirra," by the river 

Sang Sir Lancelot. 

She left the web, she left the loom, 
She made three paces thro' the room, 
She saw the water-lily bloom, 
She saw the helmet and the plume, 

She look'd down to Camelot. 
Out flew the web and floated wide ; 
Tbe mirror crack'd from side to side ; 
" The curse is come upon me," cried 

The Lady of Shalott. 

PART IV. 

In the stormy east-wind straining, 
The pale yellow woods were waning, 



The broad stream in his banks com- 
plaining, 
Heavily the low sky raining, 

Over tower'd Camelot ; 
Down she came and found a boat 
Beneath a willow left afloat, 
And round about the prow she wrote 

The Lady of Shalott. 

And down the river's dim expanse 
Like some bold seer in a trance, 
Seeing all his own mischance — 
With a glassy countenance 

Did she look to Camelot. 
And at the closing of the day 
She loosed the chain, and down she lay; 
The broad stream bore her far away, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Lying, robed in snowy white, 
That loosely flew to left and right — 
The leaves upon her falling light — 
Thro' the noises of the night 

She floated down to Camelot : 
And as the boat-head wound along 
The willowy hills and fields among, 
They heard her singing her last song, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Heard a carol, mournful, holy, 
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, 
Till her blood was frozen slowly, 
And her eyes were darken'd wholly, 

Turn'd to tower'd Camelot. 
For ere she reach'd upon the tide 
The first house by the water-side, 
Singing in her song she died, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Under tower and balcony, 

By garden-wall and gallery, 

A gleaming shape she floated by, 

Dead-pale between the houses high, 

Silent into Camelot. 
Out upou the wharfs they came, 
Knight and burgher, lord and dame, 
And round the prow they read her 
name, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Who is this ? and what is here ? 
And in the lighted palace near 



THE TWO VOICES. 



33 



Died the sound of royal cheer ; 
And they cross'd themselves for fear, 

All the knights at Camelot : 
But Lancelot mused a little space; 
He said, " She has a lovely face ; 
God in his mercy lend her grace, 

The Lady of Shalott." 



THE TWO VOICES. 
A still small voice spake unto me, 
" Thou art so full of misery, 
Were it not better not to he ? " 

Then to the still small voice I said ; 
" Let me not cast in endless shade 
What is so wonderfully made." 

To which the voice did urge reply ; 
" To-day I saw the dragon-fly 
Come from the wells where he did lie. 

" An inner impulse rent the veil 
Of his old husk : from head to tail 
Came out clearplates of sapphire mail. 

" He dried his wings : like gauze they 

grew ; 
Thro' crofts and pastures wet with dew 
A living flash of light he flew." 

I said, " When first the world began, 
Young Nature thro' five cycles ran, 
And in the sixth she moulded man. 

" She gave him mind, the lordliest 
Proportion, and, above the rest, 
Dominion in the head and breast." 

Thereto the silent voice replied; 

" Self-blinded are you by your pride : 

Look up thro'night : the world is wide. 

" This truth within thy mind rehearse, 

That in a boundless universe 

Is boundless better, boundless worse. 

" Think you this mould of hopes and 

fears 
Could find no statelier than his peers 
In yonder hundred million spheres 1 " 



It spake, moreover, in my mind : 

" Tho' thou wert scatter'd to the wind, 

Yet is there plenty of the kind." 

Then did my response clearer fall : 
" No compound of this earthly ball 
Is like another, all in all." 

To which he answer' d scoffingly ; 

" Good soul ! suppose I grant it thee. 

Who'll weep for thy deficiency 1 

" Or will one beam be less intense, 

When thy peculiar difference 

Is cancell'd in the world of sense ? " 

I would have said, " Thou canst not 

know," 
But my full heart, that work'd below, 
Bain'd thro' my sight its overflow. 

Again the voice spake unto me : 
" Thou art so steep'd in misery, 
Surely 'twere better not to be. 

" Thine anguish will not let thee sleep, 
Nor any train of reason keep : 
Thou canst not think, but thou wilt 
weep." 

I said, " The years with change ad- 
vance : 
If I make dark my countenance, 
I shut my life from happier chance. 

" Some turn this sickness yet might 

take, 
Ev'n yet." But he : " What drug can 

make 
A wither'd palsy cease to shake ? " 

I wept, "Tho' I should die, I know 
That all about the thorn will blow 
In tufts of rosy-tinted snow ; 

" And men, thro' novel spheres of 

thought 
Still moving after truth long sought, 
Will learn new things when I am not." 



34 



THE TWO VOICES. 



" Yet," said the secret voice, " some 

time, 
Sooner or later, will gray prime 
Make thy grass hoar with early rime. 

" Not less swift souls that yearn for 

light, 
Rapt after heaven's starry flight, 
Would sweep the tracts of day and 

night. 
% 
" Not less the bee would range her cells, 
The furzy prickle fire the dells, 
The foxglove cluster dappled bells." 

I said that " all the years invent ; 
Each month is various to present 
The world with some development. 

" Were this not welhto bide mine hour, 
Tho' watching from a ruin'd tower 
How grows the day of human power? " 

" The highest-mounted mind," he said, 
" Still sees the sacred morning spread 
The silent summit overhead. 

" Will thirty seasons render plain 
Those lonely lights that still remain, 
Just breaking over land and main 1 

" Or make that morn, from his cold 

crown 
And crystal silence creeping down, 
Flood with full daylight glebe and 

town? 

" Forerun thy peers, thy time, and let 
Thy feet, millenniums hence, be set 
In midst of knowledge,dream'd not yet. 

" Thou hast not gain'd a real height, 
Nor art thou nearer to the light, 
Because the scale is infinite. 

"'Twere better not to breathe or speak, 
Than cry for strength, remaining weak, 
And seem to find, but still to seek. 

" Moreover, but to seem to find 
Asks what thou lackest, thought re- 
signed, 
A healthy frame, a quiet mind." 



I said, " When I am gone away, 
' lie dared not tarry,' men will say, 
Doing dishonor to my clay." 

" This is more vile," he made reply, 
" To breathe and loathe, to live and 

sigh, 
Than once from dread of pain to die. 

" Sick art thou — a divided will 
Still heaping on the fear of ill 
The fear of men, a coward still. 

" Do men love thee ? Art thou so 

bound 
To men, that how thy name may sound 
Will vex thee lying underground ? 

" The memory of the wither'd leaf 
In endless time is scarce more brief 
Than of the garner'd Autumn-sheaf, 

" Go, vexed Spirit, sleep in trust; 
The right ear, that is fill'd with dust, 
Hears little of the false or just." 

" Hard task, to pluck resolve," I cried, 
" From emptiness and the waste wide 
Of that abyss, or scornful pride ! 

" Nay — rather yet that I could raise 
One hope that warm'd me in the days 
While still I yearn'd for human praise. 

" When, wide in soul and bold of 

tongue, 
Among the tents I paused and sung, 
The distant battle flash'd and rung. 

" I sung the joyful Paean clear, 
And, sitting, burnish' d without fear 
The brand, the buckler, and the spear— 

" Waiting to strive a happy strife, 
To war with falsehood to the knife, 
And not to lose the good of life — 

" Some hidden principle to move, 
To put together, part and prove, 
And mete the bounds of hate and 
love — 



THE TWO VOICES. 



35 



" As far as might be, to carve out 
Free space for every human doubt, 
That the whole mind might orb 
about — 

"To search through all I felt or saw, 
The springs of life, the depths of awe, 
And reach the law within the law : 

" At least, not rotting like a weed, 
But, having sown some generous seed, 
Fruitful of further thought and deed, 

" To pass when Life her light with- 
draws, 
Not void of righteous self-applause, 
Nor in a merely selfish cause — 

" In some good cause, not in mine own 
To perish, wept for, honored, known, 
And like a warrior overthrown ; 

" Whose eyes are dim with glorious 

tears, 
"When soil'd with noble dust, he hears 
His country's war-song thrill his ears : 

" Then dying of a mortal stroke, 
What time the foeman's line is broke, 
And all the war is rolled in smoke." 

" Yea ! " said the voice, " thy dream 

was good, 
While thou abodest in the bud. 
It was the stirring of the blood. 

" If Nature put not forth her power 
About the opening of the flower, 
Who is it that could live an hour 1 

" Then comes the check, the change, 

the fall, 
Pain rises up, old pleasures pall. 
There is one remedy for all. 

" Yet hadst thou, thro' enduring pain, 
Link'd month to month with such a 

chain 
Of knitted purport, all were vain. 

" Thou hadst not between death and 

birth 
Dissolved the riddle of the earth. 
So were thy labor little-worth. 



" That men with knowledge merely 

play'd, 
I told thee — hardly nigher made, 
Tho' scaling slow from grade to grade ; 

" Much less this dreamer, deaf and 

blind, 
Named man, may hope some truth to 

find, 
That bears relation to the mind. 
.1 

" For every worm beneath the moon 
Draws different threads, and late and 

soon 
Spins, toiling out his own cocoon. 

" Cry, faint not : either Truth is born 
Beyond the polar gleam forlorn, 
Or in the gateways of the morn. 

" Cry, faint not, climb : the summits 

slope 
Beyond the furthest flights of hope, 
Wrapt in dense cloud from base to 

cope. 

" Sometimes a little corner shines, 

As over rainy mist inclines 

A gleaming crag with belts of pines. 

" I will go forward, sayest thou, 
I shall not fail to find her now. 
Look up, the fold is on her brow. 

" If straight thy track, or if oblique, 
Thou know'st not. Shadows thou 

dost strike, 
Embracing cloud, Ixion-like ; 

" And owning but a little more 
Than beasts, abidest lame and poor, 
Calling thyself a little lower 

" Than angels. Cease to wail and 

brawl ! 
Why inch by inch to darkness crawl 1 
There is one remedy for all." 

" dull, one-sided voice," said I, 
" Wilt thou make every thing a lie, 
To flatter me that I may die ? 



36 



THE TWO VOICES. 



" I know that age to age succeeds, 
Blowing a noise of tongues and deeds, 
A dust of systems and of creeds. 

" I cannot hide that some have striven, 
Achieving calm, to whom was given 
The joy that mixes man with Heaven : 

" Who, rowing hard against the stream, 
Saw distant gates of Eden gleam, 
And did not dream it was a dream ; 

" But heard, by secret transport led, 
Ev'n in the charnels of the dead, 
The murmur of the fountain-head — 

" Which did accomplish their desire, 
Bore and f orebore, and did not tire, 
Like Stephen, an unquenched fire. 

" He heeded not reviling tones, 
Nor sold his heart to idle moans, 
Tho' cursed and scorn'd, and bruised 
with stones : 

"But looking upward, full of grace, 
He pray'd, and from a happy place 
God's glory smote him on the face." 

The sullen answer slid betwixt : 

" Not that the grounds of hope were 

fix'd, 
The elements were kindlier mix'd." 

I said, " I toil beneath the curse, 
But, knowing not the universe, 
I fear to slide from bad to worse. 

" And that, in seeking to undo, 
One riddle, and to find the true, 
I knit a hundred others new : 

" Or that this anguish fleeting hence, 
Unmanacled from bonds of sense, 
Be fix'd and froz'n to permanence : 

" For I go, weak from suffering here : 
Naked I go, and void of cheer : 
What is it that I may not fear? " 



" Consider well," the voice replied, 
" His face, that two hours since hath 

died ; 
Wilt thou find passion, pain or pride ? 

" Will he obey when one commands ? 
Or answer should one press his hands ? 
He answers not, nor understands. 

" His palms are folded on his breast: 
There is no other thing express'd 
But long disquiet merged in rest. 

" His lips are very mild and meek : 
Tho' one should smite him on the 

cheek, 
And on the mouth, he will not speak. 

" His little daughter, whose sweet face 
He kiss'd, taking his last embrace, 
Becomes dishonor to her race — 

" His sons grow up that bear his name, 
Some grow to honor, some to shame, — 
But he is chill to praise or blame. 

" He will not hear the north-wind rave, 
Nor, moaning, household shelter crave 
From winter rains that beat his grave. 

" High up the vapors fold and swim : 
About him broods the twilight dim : 
The place he knew forgetteth him." 

" If all be dark, vague voice," I said, 
" These things are wrapt in doubt and 

dread, 
Nor canst thou show the dead are dead, 

" The sap dries up : the plant declines. 
A deeper tale my heart divines. 
Know I not Death ? the outward signs 1 

" I found him when my years were few ; 
A shadow on the graves I knew, 
And darkness in the village yew. 

" From grave to grave the shadow 

crept : 
In her still place the morning wept : 
Touch'd by his feet the daisy slept. 



THE TWO VOICES. 



37 



" The simple senses crown'd his head : 
; Omega ! thou art Lord,' they said, 
' We find no motion in the dead.' 

" Why, if man rot in dreamless ease, 
Should that plain fact, as taught by 

these, 
Not make him sure that he shall cease ? 

" Who forged that other influence, 

That heat of inward evidence, 

By which he doubts against the sense 1 

" He owns the fatal gift of eyes, 
That read his spirit blindly wise, 
Not simple as a thing that dies. 

" Here sits he shaping wings to fly : 
His heart forebodes a mystery : 
He names the name Eternity. 

" That type of Perfect in his mind 
In Nature can he nowhere find. 
He sows himself on every wind. 

" He seems to hear a Heavenly Friend, 
And thro' thick veils to apprehend 
A labor working to an end. 

" The end and the beginning vex 
His reason : many things perplex, 
With motions, checks, and counter- 
checks. 

" He knows a baseness in his blood 
At such strange war with something 

good, 
He may not do the thing he would. 



" Heaven opens inward, chasms yawn, 
Vast images in glimmering dawn, 
Half shown, are broken and with- 
drawn. 



"Ah! sure within him and without, 
Could his dark wisdom find it out, 
There must be answer to his doubt. 

" But thou canst answer not again. 
With thine own weapon art thou slain, 
Or thou wilt answer but in vain. 



"The doubt would rest, I dare not 

solve. 
In the same circle we revolve. 
Assurance only breeds resolve." 

As when a billow, blown against, 
Falls back, the voice with which I 

fenced 
A little ceased, but recommenced. 

" Where wert thou when l,r thy father 

play'd 
In his free field, and pastime made, 
A merry boy in sun and shade ? 

" A merry boy they call'd him then, 
He sat upon the knees of men 
In days that never come again. 

"Before the little ducts began 

To feed thy bones with lime, and ran 

Their course, till thou wert also man 

" Who took a wife, who rear'd his race, 
Whose wrinkles gather'd on his face, 
Whose troubles number with his days : 

" A life of nothings, nothing-worth, 
From that first nothing ere his birth 
To that last nothing under earth ! " 

"These words," I said, "are like the 

rest; 
No certain clearness, but at best 
A vague suspicion of the breast : 

" But if I grant, thou mightst defend 
The thesis which thy words intend — 
That to begin implies to end ; 

" Yet how should I for certain hold 
Because my memory is so cold, 
That I first was in human mould ? 

" I cannot make this matter plain, 
But I would shoot, howe'er in vain, 
A random arrow from the brain. 

" It may be that no life is found, 
Which only to one engine bound 
Falls off, but cycles always round. 



38 



THE TWO VOICES. 



"As old mythologies relate, 

Some draught of Lethe might await 

The slipping thro' from state to state. 

" As here we find in trances, men 
Forget the dream that happens then, 
Until they fall in trance again. 

" So might we, if our state were such 
As one before, remember much, 
For those two likes might meet and 
touch. 

" But if I lapsed from nobler place, 
Some legend of a fallen race 
Alone might hint of my disgrace ; 

" Some vague emotion of delight 
In gazing up an Alpine height, 
Some yearning toward the lamps of 
night ; 

"Or if thro' lower lives I came — 
Tho' all experience past became 
Consolidate in mind and frame — 

" I might forget my weaker lot ; 
For is not our first year forgot ? 
The haunts of memory echo not. 

" And men, whose reason long was 

blind, 
From cells of madness unconfined, 
Oft lose whole years of darker mind. 

" Mjich more, if first I floated free, 
As naked essence, must I be 
Incompetent of memory: 

" For memory dealing but with time, 
And he with matter, could she climb 
Beyond her own material prime ? 

" Moreover, something is or seems, 
That touches me with mystic gleams, 
Like glimpses of forgotten dreams — 

"Of something felt, like something 

here ; 
Of something done, I know not where ; 
Such as no language may declare." 



The still voice laugh'd. " I talk," 

said he, 
" Not with thy dreams. Suffice it thee 
Thy pain is a reality." 

" But thou," said I, " hast missed thy 

mark, 
Who sought'st to wreck thy mortal 

ark, 
By making all the horizon dark. 

" Why not set forth, if I should do 
This rashness, that which might ensue 
With this old soul in organs new ? 

" Whatever crazy sorrow saith, 

No life that breathes with human 

breath 
Has ever truly long'd for death. 

" 'Tis life, whereof our nerves are 

scant, 
Oh life, not death, for which we pant ; 
More life, and fuller, that I want." 

I ceased, and sat as one forlorn. 
Then said the voice, in quiet scorn, 
" Behold, it is the Sabbath morn." 

And I arose, and I released 

The casement, and the light increased 

With freshness in the dawning east. 

Like soften'd airs that blowing steal, 
When meres begin to uncongeal, 
The sweet church bells began to peal. 

On to God's house the people prest : 
Passing the place where each must rest, 
Each enter'd like a welcome guest. 

One walk'd between his wife and child, 
With measured footfall firm and mild, 
And now and then he gravely smiled. 

The prudent partner of his blood 
Lean'd on him, faithful, gentle, good 
Wearing the rose of womanhood. 

And in their double love secure, 
The little maiden walk'd demure, 
Pacing with downward eyelids pure. 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 



39 



These three made unity so sweet, 
My frozen heart began to beat, 
Remembering its ancient heat. 

I blest them, and they wander'd on : 
I spoke, but answer came there none : 
The dull and bitter voice was gone. 

A second voice was at mine ear, 

A little whisper silver-clear, 

A murmur, "Be of better cheer." 

As from some blissful neighborhood, 

A notice faintly understood, 

" I see the end, and know the good." 

A little hint to solace woe, 

A hint, a whisper breathing low, 

" I may not speak of what I know." 

Like an JEolian harp that wakes 

No certain air, but overtakes 

Far thought with music that it makes : 

Such seem'd the whisper at my side : 
" What is it thou knowest, sweet 

voice ? " I cried. 
" A hidden hope," the voice replied : 

So heavenly-toned, that in that hour 
From out my sullen heart a power 
Broke, like the rainbow from the 
shower, 

To feel, altho' no tongue can prove, 
That every cloud, that spreads above 
And veileth love, itself is love. 

And forth into the fields I went, 
And Nature's living motion lent 
The pulse of hope to discontent. 

I wonder'd at the bounteous hours, 
The slow result of winter showers : 
You scarce could see the grass for 
flowers. 

I wonder'd while I paced along : 
The woods were fill'd so full with song, 
There seem'd no room for sense of 
wrong ; 



And all so variously wrought, 

I marvell'd how the mind was brought 

To anchor by one gloomy thought ; 

And wherefore rather I made choice 
To commune with that barren voice, 
Than him that said, " Rejoice ! Re- 
joice ! " 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 

I see the wealthy miller yet, 

His double chin, his portly size, 
And who that knew him could forget 

The busy wrinkles round his eyes ? 
The slow wise smile that, round about 

His dusty forehead dryly curl'd, 
Seem'd half-within and half-without, 

And full of dealings with the world ? 



In yonder chair I see him sit, 

Three fingers round the old silver 
cup — 
I see his gray eyes twinkle yet 

At his own jest — gray eyes lit up 
With summer lightnings of a soul 

So full of summer warmth, so glad, 
So healthy, sound, and clear and 
whole, 

His memory scarce can make me sad. 

Yet fill my glass : give me one kiss : 

My own sweet Alice, we must die. 
There's somewhat in this world amiss 

Shall be unriddled by and by. 
There's somewhat flows to us in life, 

But more is taken quite away. 
Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife, 

That we may die the self-same day. 

Have I not found a happy earth ? 

I least should breathe a thought of 
pain. 
Would God renew me from my birth 

I'd almost live my life again. 
So sweet it seems with thee to walk, 

And once again to woo thee mine — 
It seems in after-dinner talk 

Across the walnuts and the wine — 



40 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 



To be the long and listless boy 

Late-left an orphan of the squire, 
Where this old mansion mounted high 

Looks down upon the village spire : 
For even here, where I and you 

Have lived and loved alone so long, 
Each morn my sleep was broken thro' 

By some wild skylark's matin song. 

And oft I heard the tender dove 

In firry woodlands making moan ; 
But ere I saw your eyes, my love, 

I had no motion of my own. 
For scarce my life with fancy play'd 

Before I dream'd that pleasant 
dream — 
Still hither thither idly sway'd 

Like those long mosses in the 
stream. 



Or from the bridge I lean'd to hear 

The milldam rushing down with 
noise, 
And see the minnows everywhere 

In crystal eddies glance and poise, 
The tall flag-flowers when they sprung 

Below the range of stepping-stones, 
Or those three chestnuts near, that 
hung 

In masses thick with milky cones. 

But, Alice, what an hour was that, 

When after roving in the woods 
('Twas April then), I came and sat 

Below the chestnuts, when their 
buds 
Were glistening to the breezy blue ; 

And on the slope, an absent fool, 
I cast me down, nor thought of you, 

But angled in the higher pool. 

A love-song I had somewhere read, 

An echo from a measured strain, 
Beat time to nothing in my head 

From some odd corner of the brain. 
It haunted me, the morning long, 

With weary sameness in the rhymes, 
The phantom of a silent song, 

That went and came a thousand 
times. 



Then leapt a trout. In lazy mood 

I watch'd the little circles die ; 
They past into the level flood, 

And there a vision caught my eye ; 
The reflex of a beauteous form, 

A glowing arm, a gleaming neck, 
As when a sunbeam wavers warm 

Within the dark and dimpled beck. 

For you remember, you had set, 

That morning, on the casement-edge 
A long green box of mignonette, 
And you were leaning from the 
ledge : 
And when I raised my eyes, above 
They met with two so full and 
bright — 
Such eyes ! I swear to you, my love, 
That these have never lost their 
light. 

I loved, and love dispell'd the fear 

That I should die an early death : 
For love possess'd the atmosphere, 

And fill'd the breast with purer 
breath. 
My mother thought, What ails the 
boy? 

For I was alter'd, and began 
To move about the house with joy, 

And with the certain step of man. 

I loved the brimming wave that swam 

Thro' quiet meadows round the mill, 
The sleepy pool above the dam, 

The pool beneath it never still, 
The meal-sacks on the whiten'd floor, 

The dark round of the dripping 
wheel, 
The very air about the door 

Made misty with the floating meal. 

And oft in ramblings on the wold, 

When April nights began to blow, 
And April's crescent glimmer'd cold, 

I saw the village lights below ; 
I knew your taper far away, 

And full at heart of trembling hope, 
From off the wold I came, and lay 

Upon the freshly-flower'd slope. 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 



41 



The deep brook groan'd beneath the 
mill ; 
And "by that lamp," I thought, 
" she sits ! " 
The white chalk-quarry from the hill 
Gleam'd to the flying moon by fits. 
" that I were beside her now ! 

will she answer if I call ? 

would she give me vow for vow, 
Sweet Alice, if I told her all ? " 

Sometimes I saw you sit and spin : 

And, in the pauses of the wind, 
Sometimes I heard you sing within ; 

Sometimes your shadow cross'd the 
blind. 
At last you rose and moved the light, 

And the long shadow of the chair 
Flitted across into the night, 

And all the casement darken'd there. 

But when at last I dared to speak, 
The lanes, you know, were white 
with may, 
Your ripe lips moved not, but your 
cheek 
Flush'd like the coming of the day ; 
And so it was — half-sly, half-shy, 
You would, and would not, little 
one! 
Although I pleaded tenderly, 
And you and I were all alone. 

And slowly was my mother brought 

To yield consent to my desire : 
She wish'd me happy, but she thought 

1 might have look'd a little higher ; 
And I was young — too young to wed : 

" Yet must I love her for your sake ; 
Go fetch your Alice here," she said : 
Her eyelid quiver'd as she spake. 

And down I went to fetch my bride : 
But, Alice, you were ill at ease ; 

This dress and that by turns you tried, 
Too fearful that you should not 
please. 

1 loved you better for your fears, 

I knew you could not look but well ; 
And dews, that would have fall'n in 
tears, 
I kiss'd away before they fell. 



I watch'd the little Sufferings, 

The doubt my mother would not 
see; 
She spoke at large of many things, 

And at the last she spoke of me ; 
And turning look'd upon your face, 

As near this door you sat apart, 
And rose, and, with a silent grace 

Approaching, press'd you heart to 
heart. v 

Ah, well — but sing the foolish song 

I gave you, Alice, on the day 
When, arm in arm, we went along, 

A pensive pair, and you were gay 
With bridal flowers — that I may seem, 

As in the nights of old, to lie 
Beside the mill-wheel in the stream, 

While those full chestnuts whisper 

by. 

It is tbe miller's daughter 
And she is grown so dear, so dear, 

That I would be the jewel 
That trembles in her ear : 

For hid in ringlets day and night, 

I'd touch her neck so warm and white. 

And I would be the girdle 
About her dainty dainty waist, 

And her heart would beat against me, 
In sorrow and in rest : 

And I should know if it beat right, 

I'd clasp it round so close and tight. 

And I would be the necklace, 
And all day long to fall and rise 

Upon her balmy bosom, 
With her laughter or her sighs, 

And I would lie so light, so light, 

I scarce should be unclasp'd at night. 

A trifle, sweet ! which true love spells — 

True love interprets — right alone. 
His light upon the letter dwells, 

For all the spirit is his own. 
So, if I waste words now, in truth 

You must blame Love. His early 
rage 
Had force to make me rhyme in youth, 

And makes me talk too much in age. 

And now those vivid hours are gone, 
Like mine own life to me thou art, 
Where Past and Present, wound in 
one, 



42 



FA TIMA. 



Do make a garland for the heart : 
So sing that other song I made, 

Half-anger'd with my happy lot, 
The day, when in the chestnut shade 

I found the blue Forget-me-not. 

Love that hath us in the net 
Can he pass, and we forget? 
Many suns arise and set. 
Many a chance the years beget. 
Love th^ gift is Love the debt. 

Even so. 
Love is hurt with jar and fret. 
Love is made a vague regret. 
Eyes with idle tears are wet. 
Idle habit links us yet. 
"What is love? for we forget : 

Ah, no! no! 

Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True 
wife, 
Round my true heart thine arms in- 
twine 
My other dearer life in life, 

Look thro' my very soul with thine ! 
Untoucb'd with any shade of years, 

May those kind eyes forever dwell ! 
They have not shed a many tears, 
Dear eyes, since first I knew them 
well. 

Yet tears they shed: they had their 
part 

Of sorrow : for when time was ripe, 
The still affection of the heart 

Became an outward breathing type, 
That into stillness past again, 

And left a want unknown before ; 
Although the loss has brought us pain, 

That loss but made us love the more, 

With farther lookings on. The kiss, 

The woven arms, seem but to be 
Weak symbols of the settled bliss, 

The comfort, I have found in thee : 
But that God bless thee, dear — who 
wrought 
Two spirits to one equal mind — 
With blessings beyond hope or 
thought, 
With blessings which no words can 
find. 

Arise, and let us wander forth, 
To yon old mill across the wolds ; 



For look, the sunset, south and north, 
Winds all the vale in rosy folds, 

And fires your narrow casement glass, 
Touching the sullen pool below : 

On the chalk-hill the bearded grass 
Is dry and dewless. Let us go. 







FATIMA. 
Love, Love! withering 



Love 

might ! 

sun, that from thy noonday height 
Shudderest when I strain my sight, 
Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light, 

Lo, falling from my constant mind, 
Lo, parch'd and wither'd, deaf and 

blind, 
I whirl like leaves in roaring wind. 

Last night I wasted hateful hours 
Below the city's eastern towers : 

1 thirsted for the brooks, the showers : 
I roll'd among the tender flowers : 

I crush'd them on my breast, my 

mouth ; 
I look'd athwart the burning drouth 
Of that long desert to the south. 

Last night, when some one spoke his 

name, 
From my swift blood that went and 

came 
A thousand little shafts of flame 
Were shiver'd in my narrow frame. 
O Love, fire ! once he drew 
With one long kiss my whole soul 

thro' 
My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew. 

Before he mounts the hill, I know 
He cometh quickly : from below 
Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, 

blow 
Before him, striking on my brow. 
In my dry brain my spirit soon, 
Down-deepening from swoon to 

swoon, 
Faints like a dazzled morning moon. 

The wind sounds like a silver wire, 
And from beyond the noon a fire 



(ENONE. 



43 



Is pour'd upon the hills, and nigher 
The skies stoop down in their desire ; 
And, isled in sudden seas of light, 
My heart, pierced thro' with fierce 

delight, 
Bursts into blossom in his sight. 

My whole soul waiting silently, 

All naked in a sultry sky, 

Droops blinded with his shining eye : 

I will possess him or will die. 

I will grow round him in his place, 
Grow, live, die looking on his face, 
Die, dying clasp'd in his embrace. 



(ENONE. 
There lies a rale in Ida, lovelier 
Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. 
The swimming vapor slopes athwart 

the glen, 
Puts forth an arm, and creeps from 

pine to pine, 
And loiters, slowly drawn. On either 

hand 
The lawns and meadow-ledges mid- 
way down 
Hang rich in flowers, and far below 

them roars 
The long brook falling thro' the 

clov'n ravine 
In cataract after cataract to the sea. 
Behind the valley topmost Gargarus 
Stands up and takes the morning: but 

in front 
The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal 
Troas and Ilion's column'd citadel, 
The crown of Troas. 

Hither came at noon 
Mournful (Enone, wandering forlorn 
Of Paris, once her playmate on the 

hills. 
Her cheek had lost the rose, and round 

her neck 
Floated her hair or seem'd to float in 

rest. 
She, leaning on a fragment twined 

with vine, 
Sang to the stillness, till the mountain- 
shade 
Sloped downward to her seat from the 

upper cliff. 



"O mother Ida, many-fountain'd 

Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
For now the noonday quiet holds the 

hill : 
The grasshopper is silent in the grass : 
The lizard, with his shadow on the 

stone, 
Rests like a shadow, and the winds 

are dead. 
The purple flower droops : the golden 

bee 
Is lily-cradled : I alone awake. 
My eyes are full of tears, my heart of 

love, 
My heart is breaking, and my eyes 

are dim, 
And I am all aweary of my life. 

" O mother Ida, many-fountain'd 

Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Hear me, O Earth, hear me, O Hills, 

O Caves 
That house the cold crown'd snake ! O 

mountain brooks, 
I am the daughter of a River God, 
Hear me, for I will speak, and build 

up all 
My sorrow with my song, as yonder 

walls 
Rose slowly to a music slowly 

breathed, 
A cloud that gather'd shape : for it 

may be 
That, while I speak of it, a little while 
My heart may wander from its deeper 

woe. 

" O mother Ida, many-fountain'd 
Ida, 

Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 

I waited underneath the dawning hills, 

Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy- 
dark, 

And dewy-dark aloft the mountain 
pine : 

Beautiful Paris, evi?.-hearted Paris, 

Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, 
white-hooved, 

Came up from reedy Simois all alone. 



44 



(ENONE. 



" O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 

Far-off the torrent call'd me from the 
cleft : 

Far up the solitary morning smote 

The streaks of virgin snow. With 
down-dropt eyes 

I sat alone : white-breasted like a star 

Fronting the dawn he moved ; a leop- 
ard skin 

Droop'd fpom his shoulder, but his 
sunny hair 

Cluster'd about his temples like a 
God's : 

And his cheek brighten'd as the foam- 
bow brightens 

When the wind blows the foam, and 
all my heart 

Went forth to embrace him coming 
ere he came. 

"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 

He smiled, and opening out his milk- 
white palm 

Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian 
gold, 

That smelt ambrosially, and while I 
look'd 

And listen'd, the full-flowing river of 
speech 

Came down upon my heart. 

" ' My own (Enone, 

Beautif ul-brow'd (Enone, my own soul, 

Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind 
ingrav'n 

"For the most fair," would seem to 
award it thine, 

As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt 

The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace 

Of movement, and the charm of mar- 
ried brows/ 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 

He prest the blossom of his lips to mine, 

And added ' This was cast upon the 
board, 

When all the full-faced presence of 
the Gods 

Ranged in the halls of Peleus ; where- 
upon 

Rose feud, with question unto whom 
'twere due : 



But light-foot Iris brought it y ester- 
eve, 

Delivering, that to me, by common 
voice 

Elected umpire, Here comes to-day, 

Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each 

This meed of fairest. Thou, within 
the cave 

Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest 
pine, 

Mayst well behold them unbeheld, 
unheard 

Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of 
Gods/ 



" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
It was the deep midnoon : one silvery 

cloud 
Had lost his way between the piney 

sides 
Of this long glen. Then to the bower 

they came, 
Naked they came to that smooth- 
swarded bower, 
And at their feet the crocus brake like 

fire, 
Violet, amaracus, and asphodel, 
Lotos and lilies : and a wind arose, 
And overhead the wandering ivy and 

vine, 
This way and that, in many a wild 

festoon 
Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled 

boughs 
With bunch and berry and flower thro' 

and thro'. 

" mother Ida, hearken ere I die, 
On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit, 
And o'er him flow'd a golden cloud, 

and lean'd 
Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant 

dew. 
Then first I heard the voice of her, to 

whom 
Coming thro' Heaven, like a light that 

grows 
Larger and clearer, with one mind the 

Gods 
Rise up for reverence. She to Paris 

made 



(ENONE. 



45 



Proffer of royal power, ample rule 
Unquestion'd overflowing revenue 
Wherewith to embellish state, ' from 

rn^ny a vale 
And river-sun der'd champaign clothed 

with corn, 
Or labor'd mine undrainable of ore. 
Honor,' she said, ' and homage, tax 

and toll, 
From many an inland town and haven 

large, 
Mast-throng'd beneath her shadowing 

citadel 
In glassy bays among her tallest 

towers.' 

" O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 

Still she spake on and still she spake 
of power, 

' Which in all action is the end of all ; 

Power fitted to the season ; wisdom- 
bred 

And throned of wisdom — from all 
neighbor crowns 

Alliance and Allegiance, till thy hand 

Fail from the sceptre-staff. Such 
boon from me, 

From me, Heaven's Queen, Paris, to 
thee king-born, 

A shepherd all thy life but yet king- 
born, 

Should come most welcome, seeing 
men in power 

Only, are likest gods, who have attain'd 

Rest in a happy place and quiet seats 

Above the thunder, with undying bliss 

In knowledge of their own supremacy.' 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
She ceased, and Paris held the costly 

fruit 
Out at arm's-length, so much the 

thought of power 
Flatter' d his spirit ; but Pallas where 

she stood 
Somewhat apart, her clear and bared 

limbs 
O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed 

spear 
Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold, 
The while, above, her full and earnest 

eye 



Over her snow-cold breast and angry 

cheek 
Kept watch, waiting decision, made 

reply. 

" ' Self-reverence, self-knowledge, 

self-control, 
These three alone lead life to sover 

j| eign power. 
Yet not for power (power of herself 
Would come uncall'd for) but to live 

by law, 
Acting the law we live by without fear ; 
And, because right is right, to follow 

right 
Were wisdom in the scorn of conse* 

quence.' 

"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Again she said : ' I woo thee not with 

gifts. 
Sequel of guerdon could not alter me 
To fairer. Judge thou me by what I 

am, 
So shalt thou find me fairest. 

Yet, indeed, 
If gazing on divinity disrobed 
Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of 

fair, 
Unbiass'd by self-profit, oh ! rest thee 

sure 
That I shall love thee well and cleave 

to thee, 
So that my vigor, wedded to thy blood, 
Shall strike Avithin thy pulses, like a 

God's, 
To push thee forward thro* a life of 

shocks, 
Dangers, and deeds, until endurance 

grow 
Sine w'd with action, and the full-grown 

will, 
Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, 
Commeasure perfect freedom.' 

" Here she ceas'd, 
And Paris ponder'd, and I cried, '0 

Paris, 
Give it to Pallas ! ' but he heard me 

not, 
Or hearing would not hear me, woe is 

me ! 



46 



CENONE. 



" mother Ida, many-f ountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Idalian Aphrodite beautiful, 
Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in 

Paphian wells, 
With rosy slender fingers backward 

drew 
From her warm brows and bosom her 

deep hair «, 

Ambrosial, golden round her lucid 

throat 
And shoulder • from the violets her 

light foot 
Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded 

form 
Between the shadows of the vine- 
bunches 
Floated the glowing sunlights, as she 

moved. 



"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
She with a subtle smile in her mild 

eyes, 
The herald of her triumph, drawing 

nigh 
Half-whisper'd in his ear, 'I promise 

thee 
The fairest and most loving wife in 

Greece,' 
She spoke and laugh'd : I shut my 

sight for fear: 
But when I look'd, Paris had raised 

his arm, 
And I beheld great Here's angry eyes, 
As she withdrew into the golden cloud, 
And I was left alone within the bower ; 
And from that time to this I am alone, 
And I shall be alone until I die. 

, " Yet, mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 

Fairest — why fairest wife % am I not 
fair? 

My love hath told me so a thousand 
times. 

Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday, 

When I past by, a wild and wanton 
pard, 

Eyed like the evening star, with play- 
ful tail 

Crouch'd fawning in the weed. Most 
loving is she ? 



^Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that 
my arms 

Were wound about thee, and my hot 
lips prest 

Close, close to thine in thai quick- 
falling dew 

Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn 
rains 

Flash in the pools of whirling Simois. 

" mother, hear me yet before I die. 
They came, they cut away my tallest 

pines, 
My tall dark pines, that plumed the 

craggy ledge 
High over the blue gorge, and all 

between 
The snowy peak and snow-white cata* 

ract 
Foster'd the callow eaglet — from be* 

neath 
Whose thick mysterious boughs in the 

dark morn 
The panther's roar came muffled, while 

I sat 
Low in the valley. Never, never more 
Shall lone GEnone see the morning 

mist 
Sweep thro' them ; never see them 

overlaid 
With narrow moon -lit slips of silver 

cloud, 
Between the loud stream and the trenv 

bling stars. 

" mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd 

folds, 
Among the fragments tumbled from 

the glens, 
Or the dry thickets, I could meet with 

her 
The Abominable, that uninvited came 
Into the fair Pele'i'an banquet-hall, 
And cast the golden fruit upon the 

board, 
And bred this change ; that I might 

speak my mind, 
And tell her to her face how much I 

hate 
Her presence, hated both of Gods and 

men. 



THE SISTERS. 



47 



" mother, hear me yet before I die* 
Hath he not sworn his love a thousand 

times, 
In this green valley, under this green» 

hill, 
Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this 

stone ? 
Seal'd it with kisses 1 water' d it with 

tears ? 
O happy tears, and how unlike to 

these ! 
O happy Heaven, how canst thou see 

my face ? 
O happy earth, how canst thou bear 

my weight 1 

death, death, death, thou ever-float- 

ing cloud, 
There are enough unhappy on this 

earth, 
Pass by the happy souls, that love to 

live : 

1 pray thee, pass before my light of 

life, 
And shadow all my soul that I may 

die. 
Thou weighest heavy on the heart 

within, 
Weigh heavy on my eyelids : let me 

die. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts 
Do shape themselves within me, more 

and more, 
Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear 
Dead sounds at night come from the 

inmost hills, 
Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see 
My far-off doubtful purpose, as a 

mother 
Conjectures of the features of her 

child 
Ere it is born : her child ! — a shudder 

comes 
Across me : never child be born of me, 
Unblest, to vex me with his father's 

eyes ! 



" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone, 
Lest their shrill happy laughter come 
to me 



Walking the cold and starless road of 

Death 
Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love 
With the Greek woman. I will rise 

and go 
Down into Troy, and ere the stars 

come forth 
Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she 

says 
A fire dances before her, and a sound 
Rings ever in her ears of armed men. 
What this may be I know not, but I 

know 
That, whereso'er I am by night and 

day, 
All earth and air seem only burning 

fire." 



THE SISTERS. 
We were two daughters of one race : 
She was the fairest in the face : 

The wind is blowing in turret and 
tree. 
They were together, and she fell ; 
Therefore revenge became me well. 
O the Earl was fair to see ! 

She died : she went to burning flame : 

She mix'd her ancient blood with 

shame. 

The wind is howling in turret and 

tree. 

Whole weeks and months, and early 

and late, 
To win his love I lay in wait : 
O the Earl was fair to see ! 

I made a feast ; I bade him come ; 
I won his love, I brought him home. 

The wind is roaring in turret and 
tree. 
And after supper, on a bed, 
Upon my lap he laid his head : 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 

1 kiss'd his eyelids into rest : 
His ruddy cheek upon my breast. 

The wind is raging in turret and tree 
I hated him with the hate of hell. 
But I loved his beauty passing well. 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 



4 8 



TO 



I rose up in the silent night : 

I made my dagger sharp and bright. 

The wind is raving in turret and tree. 
As half-asleep his breath he drew, 
Three times I stabb'd him thro' and 
thro'. 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 

T curl'd and comb'd his comely head, 
He look'd so grand when he was dead. 

The wind is blowing in turret and 
tree. 
I wrapt his body in the sheet, 
And laid him at his mother's feet. 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 



TO . 

WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM. 

I send you here a sort of allegory, 

(For you will understand it) of a soul, 

A sinful soul possess'd of many gifts, 

A spacious garden full of flowering 
weeds, 

A glorious Devil, large in heart and 
brain, 

That did love Beauty only, (Beauty 
seen 

In all varieties of mould and mind) 

And Knowledge for its beauty ; or if 
Good, 

Good only for its beauty, seeing not 

That Beauty, Good, and Knowledge, 
are three sisters 

That dote upon each other, friends to 
man, 

Living together under the same roof, 

And never can be sunder'd without 
tears. 

And he that shuts Love out, in turn 
shall be 

Shut out from Love, and on her thresh- 
old lie 

Howling in outer darkness. Not for 
this 

Was common clay ta'en from the com- 
mon earth 

Moulded by God, and temper'd with 
the tears 

Of angels to the perfect shape of man. 



* THE PALACE OF ART. 

I built my soul a lordly pleasure- 

# house, 

Wherein at ease for aye to dwell. 
I said, " O Soul, make merry and 
carouse, 
Dear soul, for all is well." 

A huge crag-platform, smooth as bur- 
nish'd brass 
I chose. The ranged ramparts 
bright 
From level meadow-bases of deep grass 
Suddenly scaled the light. 

Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or 
shelf 
The rock rose clear, or winding stair. 
My soul would live alone unto herself 
In her high palace there. 

And "while the world runs round and 

round," I said, 

" Reign thou apart, a quiet king, 

Still as, while Saturn whirls, his stead* 

fast shade 

Sleeps on his luminous ring." 

To which my soul made answer 
readily : 
" Trust me, in bliss I shall abide 
In this great mansion that is built for 
me, 
So royal-rich and wide." 

Four courts I made, East, West and 
South and North, 
In each a squared lawn, wherefrom 
The golden gorge of dragons spouted 
forth 
A flood of fountain-foam. 

And round the cool green courts there 
ran a row 
Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty 
woods, 
Echoing all night to that sonorous 
flow 
Of spouted fountain-floods. 



THE PALACE OF ART. 



49 



And round the roofs a gilded gallery 
That lent broad verge to distant 
lands, 
Far as the wild swan wings, to where 
the sky- 
Dipt down to sea and sands. 

From those four jets four currents in 
one swell 
Across the mountain stream'd below 
In misty folds, that floating as they 
fell 
Lit up a torrent-bow. 

And high on every peak a statue 
seem'd 
To hang on tiptoe, tossing up 
A cloud of incense of all odor steam'd 
From out a golden cup. 

So that she thought, "And who shall 
gaze upon 
My palace with unblinded eyes, 
While this great bow will waver in the 
sun, 
And that sweet incense rise ? " 

For that sweet incense rose and never 
fail'd, 
And, while day sank or mounted 
higher, 
The light aerial gallery, golden-rail'd, 
Burnt like a fringe of fire. 

Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd 
and traced, 
Would seem slow-flaming crimson 
fires 
From shadow'd grots of arches inter- 
laced, 
And tipt with frost-like spires. 

* * * * 

* * * * 

Full of long-sounding corridors it was, 

That over-vaulted grateful gloom, 
Thro' which the livelong day my soul 
did pass, 
Well-pleased, from room to room. 

Full of great rooms and small the 
palace stood, 
All various, each a perfect whole 



From living Nature, fit for every mood 
And change of my still soul. 

For some were hung with arras green 
and blue, 
Showing a gaudy summer-morn, 
Where with puff'd cheek the belted 
hunter blew 
His wreathed bugle-horn. 

One seem'd all dark and red — a tract 
of sand, 
And some one pacing there alone, 
Who paced forever in a glimmering 
land, 
Lit with a low large moon. 

One show'd an iron coast and angry 
waves. 
You seem'd to hear them climb and 
fall 
And roar rock-thwarted under bellow- 
ing caves, 
Beneath the windy wall. 

And one, a full-fed river winding slow 

By herds upon an endless plain, 
The ragged rims of thunder brooding 
low, 
With shadow-streaks of rain. 

And one, the reapers at their sultry 
toil. 
In front they bound the sheaves. 
Behind 
Were realms of upland, prodigal in 
oil, 
And hoary to the wind. 

And one a foreground black with 
stones and slags, 
Beyond, a line of heights, and higher 
All barr'd with long white cloud the 
scornful crags, 
And highest, snow and fire. 

And one, an English home — gray 
twilight pour'd 
On dewy pastures, dewy trees, 
Softer than sleep — all things in order 
stored, 
A haunt of ancient Peace. 



so 



THE PALACE OF ART. 



Nor these alone, but every landscape 
fair, 
As fit for every mood of mind, 
Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, 
was there 
Not less than truth design'd. 



* * * * 

Or the maid-mother by a crucifix, 

In tracts df pasture sunny-warm. 
Beneath branch-work of costly sardo- 
nyx 
Sat smiling, babe in arm. 

Or in a clear-wall'd city on the sea, 
Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair 
Wound with white roses, slept St. 
Cecily ; 
An angel look'd at her. 

Or thronging all one porch of Paradise 

A group of Houris bow'd to see 
The dying Islamite, with hands and 
eyes 
That said, We wait for thee. 

Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded 
son 
In some fair space of sloping greens 
Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon, 
And watch'd by weeping queens. 

Or hollowing one hand against his ear, 

To list a foot-fall, ere he saw 
The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian 
king to hear 
Of wisdom and of law. 

Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd, 
And many a tract of palm and rice, 
The throne of Indian Cama slowly 
sailed 
A summer fann'd with spice. 

Or sweet Europa's mantle blew un- 
clasp'd, 
From off her shoulder backward 
borne : 
From one hand droop'd a crocus : one 
hand grasp'd 
The mild bull's golden horn. 



Or else flushed Ganymede, his rosy 
thigh 
Half-buried in the Eagle's down 
Sole as a flying star shot thro' the sky 
Above the pillar'd town. 

Nor these alone : but every legend fair 
Which the supreme Caucasian mind 
Carved out of Nature for itself, was 
there, 
Not less than life, design'd. 

* * * * 

* * * * 
Then in the towers I placed great bells 

that swung, 
Moved of themselves, with silver 
sound ; 
And with choice paintings of wise men 
I hung 
The royal dais round. 

For there was Milton like a seraph 
strong, 
Beside him Shakespeare bland and 
mild ; 
And there the world-worn Dante 
grasp'd his song, 
And somewhat grimly smiled. 

And there the Ionian father of the 

rest; 

A million wrinkles carved his skin ; 

A hundred winters snow'd upon his 

breast, 

From cheek and throat and chin. 

Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately- 
set 
Many an arch high up did lift, 
And angels rising and descending met 
With interchange of gift. 

Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd 

With cycles of the human tale 
Of this wide world, the times of every 
land 
So wrought, they will not fail. 

The people here, a beast of burden 
slow, 
Toil'd onward, prick'd with goads 
and stings ; 



THE PALACE OF ART. 



51 



Here play'd, a tiger, rolling to and fro 
The heads and crowns of kings ; 

Here rose, an athlete, strong to break 
or bind 
All force in bonds that might en- 
dure, 
And here once more like some sick 
man declined, 
And trusted any cure. 

But over these she trod : and those 
great bells 
Began to chime. She took her 
throne : 
She sat betwixt the shining Oriels, 
To sing her songs alone. 

And thro' the topmost Oriels' colored 

flame 

Two godlike faces gazed below ; 

Plato the wise, and large-brow'd Veru- 

lam, 

The first of those who know. 

And all those names, that in their 
motion were 
Full-welling fountain-heads of 
change, 
Betwixt the slender shafts were bla- 
zon'd fair 
In diverse raiment strange : 

Thro' which the lights, rose, amber, 
emerald, blue, 
Flush'd in her temples, and her eyes. 
And from her lips, as morn from 
Memnon, drew 
Rivers of melodies. 

Xo nightingale delighteth to prolong 

Her low preamble all alone, 
More than my soul to hear her echo'd 
song 
Throb thro' the ribbed stone ; 

Singing and murmuring in her feast- 
ful mirth, 
Joying to feel herself alive, 
Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible 
earth, 
Lord of the senses five ; 



Communing with herself : " All these 
are mine, 
And let the world have peace or 
wars, 
'Tis one to me." She — when young 
night divine 
Crown'd dying day with stars, 

Making sweet close of his delicious 

toils — 

Lit light in wreaths and anadems, 

And pure quintessences of precious 

oils 

In hollow'd moons of gems, 

To mimic heaven ; and clapt her 
hands and cried, 
" I marvel if my still delight 
In this great house so royal-rich, and 
wide, 
Be flatter' d to the height. 

" all things fair to sate my various 
eyes! 

shapes and hues that please me 

well! 
O silent faces of the Great and Wise, 
My Gods, with whom I dwell! 

" God-like isolation which art mine, 

1 can but count thee perfect gain, 
What time I watch the darkening 

droves of swine 
That range on yonder plain. 

" In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient 
skin, 
They graze and wallow, breed and 
sleep ; 
And oft some brainless devil enters in, 
And drives them to the deep." 

Then of the moral instinct would she 
prate 
And of the rising from the dead, 
As hers by right of full-accomplish'd 
Fate; 
And at the last she said : 

" I take possession of man's mind and 
deed. 
I care not what the sects may brawl. 



52 



THE PALACE OF ART. 



I sit as God holding no form of creed, 
But contemplating all." 



Full oft the riddle of the painful earth 

Flash'd thro' her as she sat alone, 
Yet not the less held she her solemn 
mirth, 
And intellectual throne. 

And so she throve and prosper'd : so 
three years 
She prosper'd : on the fourth she 
fell, 
Like Herod, when the shout was in 
his ears, 
Struck thro' with pangs of hell. 

Lest she should fail and perish utterly, 

God, before whom ever lie bare 
The abysmal deeps of Personality, 
Plagued her with sore despair. 

When she would think, where'er she 

turn'd her sight 

The airy hand confusion wrought, 

Wrote, "Mene, mene," and divided 

quite 

The kingdom of her thought. 

Deep dread and loathing of her soli- 
tude 
Fell on her, from which mood was 
born 
Scbrn of herself; again, from out that 
mood 
Laughter at her self-scorn. 

" What ! is not this my place of 
strength," she said, 
" My spacious mansion built for me, 
Whereof the strong foundation-stones 
were laid 
Since my first memory ? " 

But in dark corners of her palace stood 

Uncertain shapes ; and unawares 
On white-eyed phantasms weeping 
tears of blood, 
And horrible nightmares, 



And hollow shades enclosing hearts of 
flame, 
And, with dim fretted foreheads all, 
On corpses three-months-old at noon 
she came, 
That stood against the wall. 

A spot of dull stagnation, without 
light 
Or power of movement, seem'd my 
soul, 
'Mid onward-sloping motions infinite 
Making for one sure goal. 

A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars 
of sand, 
Left on the shore ; that hears all 
night 
The plunging seas draw backward 
from the land 
Their moon-led waters white. 

A star that with the choral starry 
dance 
Join'd not, but stood, and standing 
saw 
The hollow orb of moving Circum- 
stance 
Roll'd round by one fix'd law. 

Back on herself her serpent pride had 
curl'd. 
"No voice," she shriek'd in that 
lone hall, 
" No voice breaks thro' the stillness 
of this world: 
One deep, deep silence all! " 

She, mouldering with the dull earth's 
mouldering sod, 
Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame, 
Lay there exiled from eternal God, 
Lost to her place and name ; 

And death and life she hated equally, 

And nothing saw, for her despair, 
But dreadful time, dreadful eternity, 
No comfort anywhere.; 

Remaining utterly confused with 
fears, 
And ever worse with growing time, 



LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. 



S3 



And ever unrelieved by dismal tears, 
And all alone in crime : 

Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt 
round 
With blackness as a solid wall, 
Far off she seem'd to hear the dully 
sound 
Of human footsteps fall. 

As in strange lands a traveller walk- 
ing slow, 
In doubt and great perplexity, 
A little before moon-rise hears the low 
Moan of an unknown sea ; 

And knows not if it be thunder, or a 
sound 
Of rocks thrown down, or one deep 
cry 
Of great wild beasts ; then thinketh, 
" I have found 
A new land, but I die." 

She howl'd aloud, " I am on fire within. 

There comes no murmur of reply. 
What is it that will take away my sin, 
And save me lest I die?" 

So when four years were wholly fin- 
ished, 
She threw her royal robes away. 
" Make me a cottage in the vale," she 
said, 
" Where I may mourn and pray. 

"Yet pull not down my palace towers, 

that are 
So lightly beautifully built : 
Perchance I may return with others 

there 
When I have purged my guilt." 



LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Of me you shall not win renown: 
You thought to break a country heart 

For pastime, ere you went to town. 
At me you smiled, but unbeguiled 

I saw the snare, and I retired : 
The daughter of a hundred Earls, 

You are not one to be desired. 



Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

I know you proud to bear your 
name, 
Your pride is yet no mate for mine, 

Too proud to care from whence I 
came. 
Nor would I break for your sweet sake 

A heart that dotes on truer charms. 
A simple maiden in her flower 

Is worth a hundred coats -of -arms. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Some meeker pupil you must find, 
For were you queen of all that is, 

I could not stoop to such a mind. 
You sought to prove how I could love; 

And my disdain is my reply. 
The lion on your old stone gates 

Is not more cold to you than L 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

You put strange memories in my 
head. 
Not thrice your branching limes have 
blown 
Since I beheld young Laurence 
dead. 
Oh your sweet eyes, your low replies • 

A great enchantress you may be ; 
But there was that across his throat 
Which you had hardly cared to see. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

When thus he met his mother's 
view, 
She had the passions of her kind, 
She spake some certain truths of 
you. 
Indeed I heard one bitter word 

That scarce is fit for you to hear ; 
Her manners had not that repose 
Which stamps the caste of Vere de 
Vere. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

There stands a spectre in your hall : 
The guilt of blood is at your door : 
You changed a wholesome heart to 
gall. 
You held your course without remorse, 
To make him trust his modest 
worth, 



54 



THE MAY QUEEN. 



And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare, 
And slew him with your noble birth. 

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, 

From yon blue heavens above us 
bent 
The gardener Adam and his wife 

Smile at the claims of long descent. 
Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 

'Tis only noble to be good. 
Kind hearts are more than coronets, 

And simple faith than Norman 
blood. 

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere, 
You pine among your halls and 
towers : 



The languid light of your proud eyes 

Is wearied of the rolling hours. 
In glowing health, with boundless 
wealth, . 
But sickening of a vague disease, 
You know so ill to deal with time, 
You needs must play such pranks 
as these. 

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, 

If time be heavy on your hands, 
Are there no beggars at your gate, 

Nor any poor about your lands ? 
Oh ! teach the orphan-boy to read, 

Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, 
Pray Heaven for a human heart, 

And let the foolish yeoman go. 



THE MAY QUEEN. 

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear ; 

To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year; 

Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day ; 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

There's many a black black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine ; 

There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Cai*oline : 

But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say, 

So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, 

If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break : 

But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay, 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see, 

But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree 1 

He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday, 

But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, 
And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. 
They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say, 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May, 

They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be : 

They say his heart is breaking, mother — what is that to me ? 

There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day, 

And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May 

Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, 

And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen \ 



THE MAY QUEEN. 55 



For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away, 

And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers, 
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers ; 
And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray, 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass, 
And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they p.^ss ; 
There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day, 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still, 

And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill, 

And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and play, 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, 
To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year : 
To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day, 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

NEW-YEAR'S EVE. 

If you're waking call me early, call me early, mother dear, 

For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year. 

It is the last New-year that I shall ever see, 

Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no more of me. 

To-night I saw the sun set : he set and left behind 
The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind ; 
And the New-year's coming up, mother, but I shall never see 
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. 

Last May we made a crown of flowers : we had a merry day ; 
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May ; 
And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse, 
Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops. 

There's not a flower on all the hills : the frost is on the pane . 
I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again : 
I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high : 
I long to see a flower so before the day I die. 

The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree, 

And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, 

And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the wave, 

But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. 

Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine, 
In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine, 



I 



56 THE MAY QUEEN. 



Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, 
When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still. 

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light 
You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night ; 
When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool 
On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool. 

You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, 
And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. 
I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass, 
With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. 

I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now ; 
You'll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go ; 
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild, 
You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child. 

If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place ; 
Tho' you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face ; 
Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say, 
And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away. 

Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night forevermore, 
And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door ; 
Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green : 
She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been. 

She'll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor : 
Let her take 'em : they are hers : I shall never garden more : 
But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rosebush that I set 
About the parlor-window and the box of mignonette. 

Good-night, sweet mother : call me before the day is born. 
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn ; 
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, 
So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. 

CONCLUSION. 

I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am ; 

And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb. 

How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year ! 

To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here. 

Q sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies, 
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise. 
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow, 
And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. 

It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, 
And now it seems as bard to stay, and yet His will be done I 



THE MAY QUEEN. 57 



But still I think it can't be long before I find release ; 

And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace, 

blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair ! 

And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there ! 

blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head ! 
A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. 

He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd me all the sin. 
Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in r 
Nor would I now be well, mother, again if that could be, 
For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. 

1 did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat, 
There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet 
But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, 
And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. 

All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call ; 
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all; 
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, 
And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. 

For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear ; 
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ; 
With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I felt resigned, 
And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. 

1 thought that it was fancy, and I listen' d in my bed, 
And then did something speak to me — I know not what was said 
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind, 
And up the valley came again the music on the wind. 

But you were sleeping; and I said, " It's not for them: it's mine." 
And if it come three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. 
And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, 
Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars. 

So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know 
The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. 
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. 
But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away. 

And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret ; 
There's many a worthier than I, would make him happy yet. 
If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been his wife ; 
But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. 

O look ! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow ; 

He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. 

And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine — 

Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. 



58 



THE LOTOS-EATERS. 



O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done 
The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun — 
Forever and forever with those just souls and true — 
And what is life, that we should moan ? why make we such ado ? 

Forever and forever, all in a blessed home — 

And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come — 

To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast — 

And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. 



THE LOTOS-EATERS. 
• f Courage ! " he said, and pointed 

toward the land, 
"This mounting wave will roll us 

shoreward soon." 
In the afternoon they came unto a 

land 
In which it seemed always afternoon. 
All round the coast the languid air did 

swoon, 
Breathing like one that hath a weary 

dream. 
Full-faced above the valley stood the 

moon ; 
And like a downward smoke, the slen- 
der stream 
Along the cliff to fall and pause and 

fall did seem. 

A land of streams ! some, like a down- 
ward smoke, 
Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, 

did go ; 
And some thro' wavering lights and 

shadows broke, 
Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam 

below. 
They saw the gleaming river seaward 

flow 
From the inner land: far off, three 

mountain-tops, 
Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, 
Stood sunset-flush'd ; and, dew'd with 

showery drops, 
Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the 

woven copse. 

The charmed sunset linger'd low 

adown 
In the red West : thro' mountain clefts 

the dale 



Was seen far inland, and the yellow 
down 

Border'd with palm, and many a wind- 
ing vale 

And meadow, set with slender galin- 
gale ; 

A land where all things always seem'd 
the same ! 

And round about the keel with faces 
pale, 

Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, 

The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos- 
eaters came. 

Branches they bore of that enchanted 

stem, 
Laden with flower and fruit, whereof 

they gave 
To each, but whoso did receive of 

them, 
And taste, to him the gushing of the 

wave 
Far far away did seem to mourn and 

rave 
On alien shores ; and if his fellow 

spake, 
His voice was thin, as voices from the 

grave ; 
And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all 

awake, 
And music in his ears his beating heart 

did make. 

They sat them down upon the yellow 
sand, 

Between the sun and moon upon the 
shore ; 

And sweet it was to dream of Father- 
land, 

Of child and wife, and slave ; but 
evermore 



THE LOTOS-EATERS. 



59 



Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the 

oar, 
Weary the wandering fields of barren 

foam. 
Then some one said, " We will return 

no more ; " 
And all at once they sang, " Our island 

home 
Is far beyond the wave ; we will no 

lonsrer roam." 



CHORIC SONG. 

i. 

There is sweet music here that softer 

falls 
Than petals from blown roses on the 

grass, 
Or night-dews on still waters between 

walls 
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming 

pass; 
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, 
Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes ; 
Music that brings sweet sleep down 

from the blissful skies. 
Here are cool mosses deep, 
And thro' the moss the ivies creep, 
And in the stream the long-leaved 

flowers weep, 
And from the craggy ledge the poppy 

hangs in sleep. 



Why are we weigh'd upon with heavi- 
ness, 

And utterly consumed with sharp dis- 
tress, 

While all things else have rest from 
weariness ? 

All things have rest : why should we 
toil alone, 

We only toil, who are the first of 
things, 

And make perpetual moan, 

Still from one sorrow to another 
thrown : 

Nor ever fold our wings, 

And cease from wanderings, 

Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy 
balm ; 



Nor hearken what the inner spirit 

sings, 
" There is no joy but calm ! " 
Why should we only toil, the roof and 

crown of things ? 



Lo ! in the middle of the wood, 

The folded leaf is woo'd from out the 

bud 
With winds upon the branch, and 

there 
Grows green and broad, and takes no 

care, 
Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon 
Nightly dew-fed ; and turning yellow 
Falls, and floats adown the air. 
Lo ! sweeten'd with the summer light, 
The full-juiced apple, waxing over- 
mellow, 
Drops in a silent autumn night. 
All its allotted length of days, 
The flower ripens in its place, 
Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath 

no toil, 
Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. 



Hateful is the dark-blue sky, 
Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. 
Death is the end of life ; ah, why 
Should life all labor be 1 
Let us alone. Time driveth onward 

fast, 
And in a little while our lips are dumb. 
Let us alone. What is it that will last? 
All things are taken from us, and be- 
come 
Portions and parcels of the dreadful 

Past. 
Let us alone. What pleasure can we 

have 
To war with evil % Is there any peace 
In ever climbing up the climbing 

wave ? 
All things have rest, and ripen toward 

the grave 
In silence ; ripen, fall and cease : 
Give us long rest or death, dark death 

or dreamful ease. 



I 



60 



THE LOTOS-EATERS. 



How sweet it were, hearing the down- 
ward stream, 
With half-shut eyes ever to seem 
Falling asleep in a half-dream ! 
To dream and dream, like yonder 

amber light, 
Which will not leave the myrrh-bush 

on the height ; 
To hear each other's whisper'd speech ; 
Eating the Lotos day by day, 
To watch the crisping ripples on the 

beach, 
And tender curving lines of creamy 

spray ; 
To lend our hearts and spirit wholly 
To the influence of mild-minded mel- 
ancholy ; 
To muse and brood and live again in 

memory, 
With those old faces of our infancy 
Heap'd over with a mound of grass, 
Two handfuls of white dust, shut in 
an urn of brass ! 



VI. 

Dear is the memory of our wedded 

lives, 
And dear the last embraces of our 

wives 
And their warm tears : but all hath 

suffer'd. change : 
For surely now our household hearths 

are cold : 
Our sons inherit us : our looks are 

strange : 
And we should come like ghosts to 

trouble joy. 
Or else the island princes over-bold 
Have eat our substance, and the min- 
strel sings, 
Before them of the ten years' war in 

Troy, 
And our great deeds, as half-forgotten 

things. 
Is there confusion in the little isle 3 
Let what is broken so remain. 
The Gods are hard to reconcile : 
'Tis hard to settle order once again. 
There is confusion worse than death, 



Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, 

Long labor unto aged breath, 

Sore task to hearts worn out by many 

wars 
And eyes grown dim with gazing on 

the pilot-stars. 



But, propt on beds of amaranth and 

moly, 
How sweet (while warm airs lull us, 

blowing lowly) 
With half-dropt eyelid still, 
Beneath a heaven dark and holy, 
To watch the long bright river draw- 
ing slowly 
His waters from the purple hill — 
To hear the dewy echoes calling 
From cave to cave thro' the thick- 
twined vine — 
To watch the emerald-color'd water 

falling 
Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath 

divine ! 
Only to hear and see the far-off spar- 
kling brine, 
Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out 
beneath the pine. 



The Lotos blooms below the barren 

peak : 
The Lotos blows by every-winding 

creek : 
All day the wind breathes low with 

mellower tone : 
Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone 
Round and round the spicy downs the 

yellow Lotos-dust is blown. 
We have had enough of action, and 

of motion we, 
Eoll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, 

when the surge was seething 

free, 
Where the wallowing monster spouted 

his foam-fountains in the sea. 
Let us swear an oath, and keep it with 

an equal mind, 
| In the hollow Lotos-land to live and 
I lie reclined 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 



61 



On the hills like Gods together, care- 
less of mankind. 
For they lie beside their nectar, and 

the bolts are hurl'd 
Far below them in the valleys, and 

the clouds are lightly curl'd 
Round their golden houses, girdled 

with the gleaming world : 
Where they smile in secret, looking 

over wasted lands, 
Blight and famine, plague and earth- 
quake, roaring deeps and fiery 

sands, 
Clanging fights, and flaming towns, 

and sinking ships, and praying 

hands. 
But they smile, they find a music cen- 
tred in a doleful song 
Steaming up, a lamentation and an 

ancient tale of wrong, 
Like a tale of little meaning tho' the 

words are strong ; 
Chanted from an ill-used race of men 

that cleave the soil, 
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest 

with enduring toil, 
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, 

and wine and oil ; 
Till they perish and they suffer — 

some, 'tis whisper'd — down in 

hell 
Suffer endless anguish, others in 

Elysian valleys dwell, 
Resting weary limbs at last on beds 

of asphodel. 
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet 

than toil, the shore 
Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, 

wind and wave and oar ; 
Oh rest ye, brother mariners, we will 

not wander more. 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 

I read, before my eyelids dropt their 
shade, 
" The Legend of Good Women" long 
ago 
Sung by the morning-star of song, 
who made 
His music heard below ; 



Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose 
sweet breath 
Preluded those melodious bursts that 
fill 
The spacious times of great Elizabeth 
With sounds that echo still. 

And, for a whale, the knowledge of 
his art 
Held me above the subject, as 
strong gales 
Hold swollen clouds from raining, 
tho' my heart, 
Brimful of those wild tales, 

Charged both mine eyes with tears. 
In every land 
I saw, wherever light illumineth, 
Beauty and anguish walking hand in 
hand 
The downward slope to death. 

Those far-renowned brides of ancient 
song 
Peopled the hollow dark, like burn- 
ing stars, 
And I heard sounds of insult, shame, 
and wrong, 
And trumpets blown for wars ; 

And clattering flints batter'd with 
clanging hoofs ; 
And I saw crowds in column'd 
sanctuaries ; 
And forms that pass'd at windows 
and on roofs 
Of marble palaces ; 

Corpses across the threshold ; heroes 
tall 

Dislodging pinnacle and parapet 
Upon the tortoise creeping to the wall j 

Lances in ambush set ; 

And high shrine-doors burst thro' with 
heated blasts 
Thrt run before the fluttering 
tongues of fire ; • 
White surf wind-scattered over sails 
and masts, 
And ever climbing higher 



62 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 



Squadrons and squares of men in 
brazen plates, 
Scaffolds, still sheets of water, 
divers woes, 
Ranges of glimmering vaults with 
iron grates, 
And husb/d seraglios. 

So shape chased shape as swift as, 
when to land 
Bluster - the winds and tides the 
self-same way, 
Crisp foam-flakes scud along the 
level sand, 
Torn from the fringe of spray. 

I started once, or seem'd to start in 
pain, 
Resolved on noble things, and 
strove to speak, 
As when a great thought strikes along 
the brain, 
And flushes all the cheek. 

And once my arm was lifted to hew 
down 
A cavalier from off his saddle-bow, 
That bore a lady from a leaguer'd 
town ; 
And then, I know not how, 

All those sharp fancies, by down- 
lapoing thought 
Streamed onward, lost their edges, 
and did creep 
RolFd on each other, rounded, 
smooth'd, and brought 
Into the gulfs of sleep. 

At last methought that I had wan- 
der'd far 
In an old wood : fresh-wash'd in 
coolest dew 
The maiden splendors of the morning 
star 
Shook in the steadfast blue. 

Enormous elm-tree-boles did stoop 
and lean 
Upon the dusky brushwood under- 
neath 



Their broad curved branches, fledged 
with clearest green, 
New from its silken sheath. 

The dim red morn had died, her 
journey done, 
And with dead lips smiled at the 
twilight plain, 
Half-fairn across the threshold of 
the sun, 
Never to rise again. 

There was no motion in the dumb 
dead air, 
Not any song of bird or sound of 
rill; 
Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre 
Is not so deadly still 

As that wide forest. Growths of 
jasmine turn'd 
Their humid arms festooning tree 
to tree, 
And at the root thro' lush green 
grasses burn'd 
The red anemone. 

I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, 
I knew 
The tearful glimmer of the languid 
dawn 
On those long, rank, dark wood-walks 
drench'd in dew, 
Leading from lawn to lawn. 

The smell of violets, hidden in the 
green, 
Pour'd back into my empty soul 
and frame 
The times when I remember to have 
been 
Joyful and free from blame. 

And from within me a clear under 
tone 
Thrill'd thro' mine ears in that un- 
blissful clime, 
" Pass freely thro' : the wood is aU 
thine own, 
Until the end of time." 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 



63 



At length I saw a lady within call, 
Stiller than chiselPd marble, stand- 
ing there ; 

A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, 
And most divinely fair. 

Her loveliness with shame and with 
surprise 
Froze my swift speech : she turning 
on my face 
The star-like sorrows of immortal 
eyes, 
Spoke slowly in her place. 

" I had great beauty : ask thou not 
my name : 
No one can be more wise than 
destiny. 
Many drew swords and died. 
Where'er I came 
I brought calamity." 

" No marvel, sovereign lady : in fair 
field 
Myself for such a face had boldly 
died/' 
I answer'd free; and turning I ap- 
peal'd 
To one that stood beside. 

But she, with sick and scornful looks 
averse, 
To her full height her stately stat- 
ure draws; 
" My youth," she said '* was blasted 
with a curse : 
This woman was the cause. 

" I was cut off from hope in that sad 
place, 
Which men call'd Aulis in those 
iron years : 
My father held his hand upon his face ; 
I, blinded with my tears, 

" Still strove to speak : my voice was 
thick with sighs 
As in a dream. Dimly I could 
descry 
The stern black-bearded kings with 
wolfish eyes, 
Waiting to see me die. 



" The high masts flicker'd as they lay 
afloat ; 
The crowds, the temples, waver'd, 
and the shore ; 
The bright death quiver' d at the vic- 
tim's throat ; 
Touch'd ; and I knew no more." 

Whereto the other with a downward 
brow : 
" I would the white cold heavy- 
plunging foam, 
Whirl'd by the wind, had rolFd me 
deep below, 
Then when I left my home." 

Her slow full words sank thro' the 
silence drear, 
As thunder-drops fall on a sleeping 
sea: 
Sudden I heard a voice that cried, 
"Come here, 
That I may look on thee." 

I turning saw, throned on a flowery 
rise, 
One sitting on a crimson scarf un- 
roll'd ; 
A queen, with swarthy cheeks and 
bold black eyes, 
Brow-bound with burning gold. 

She, flashing forth a haughty smile, 
began : 
" I governed men by change, and 
so I sway'd 
All moods. "Tis long since I have 
seen a man. 
Once, like the moon, I made 

" The ever-shifting currents of the 
blood 
According to my humor ebb and 
flow. 
I have no men to govern in this wood : 
That makes my only woe. 

" Nay — yet it chafes me that I could 
not bend 
One will ; nor tame and tutor with 
mine eye 



64 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 



That dull cold-blooded Caesar. 
Prythee, friend, 
Where is Mark Antony ? 

*'The man, my lover, with whom I 
rode sublime 
On Fortune's neck : we sat as God 
by God : 
The Nilus would have risen before his 
time 
And flooded at our nod. 

" We drank the Libyan Sun to sleep, 
and lit 
Lamps which out-burn'd Canopus 
O my life 
In Egypt ! the dalliance and the wit, 
The flattery and the strife, 

" And the wild kiss, when fresh from 
war's alarms, 
My Hercules, my Roman Antony, 
My mailed Bacchus leapt into my 
arms, 
Contented there to die ! 



" And there he died : and when I heard 
my name 
Sigh'd forth with life I would not 
brook my fear 
Of the other : with a worm I balk'd 
his fame. 
What else was left % look here ! " 



(With that she tore her robe apart, 
and half 
The polish'd argent of her breast to 
sight 
Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with 
a laugh, 
Showing the aspick's bite.) 

" I died a Queen. The Roman soldier 
found 
Me lying dead, my crown about my 
brows, 
A name forever ! — lying robed and 
crown'd, 
Worthy a Roman spouse." 



Her warbling voice, a lyre of widest 
range 
Struck by all passion, did fall down 
and glance 
From tone to tone, and glided thro' all 
change 
Of liveliest utterance. 

When she made pause I knew not for 
delight : 
Because with sudden motion from 
the ground 
She rais'd her piercing orbs, and fill'd 
with light 
The interval of sound. 

Still with their fires Love tipt his keen- 
est darts ; 
As once they drew into two burning 
rings 
All beams of Love, melting the mighty 
hearts 
Of captains and of kings. 

Slowly my sense undazzled. Then I 
heard 
A noise of some one coming thro' 
the lawn, 
And singing clearer than the crested 
bird 
That claps his wings at dawn. 

" The torrent brooks of hallow'd Israel 
From craggy hollows pouring, late 
and soon, 
Sound all night long, in falling thro' 
the dell, 
Far-heard beneath the moon. 

" The balmy moon of blessed Israel 
Floods all the deep-blue gloom with 
beams divine : 
All night the splinter'd crags that wall 
the dell 
With spires of silver shine." 

As one that museth where broad sun- 
shine laves 
The lawn by some cathedral, thro' 
the door 
Hearing the holy organ rolling waves 
Of sound on roof and floor 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 



65 



Within, and anthem sung, is charm'd 
and tied 
To where he stands, — so stood I, 
when that flow 
Of music left the lips of her that died 
To save her father's vow ; 

The daughter of the warrior Gileadite ; 
A maiden pure; as when she went 
along 
From Mizpeh's tower'd gate with wel- 
come light, 
With timbrel and with song. 

My words leapt forth : " Heaven heads 
the count of crimes 
With that wild oath." She render'd 
answer high : 
" Not so, nor once alone ; a thousand 
times 
I would be born and die. 

" Single I grew, like some green plant, 
whose root 
Creeps to the garden water-pipes 
beneath 
Feeding the flower; but ere my flower 
to fruit 
Changed, I was ripe for death. 

•' My God, my land, my father — these 
did move 
Me from my bliss of life, that Nature 
gave, 
Lower'd softly with a threefold cord 
of love 
Down to a silent grave. 

' And I went mourning, ' No fair 
Hebrew boy 
Shall smile away my maiden blame 
among 
The Hebrew mothers' — emptied of 
all joy, 
Leaving the dance and song, 

" Leaving the olive-gardens far below, 
Leaving the promise of my bridal 
bower, 
The valleys of grape-loaded vines that 
glow 
Beneath the battled tower. 



"The light white cloud swam over us. 
Anon 
We heard the lion roaring from his 
den ; 
We saw the large white stars rise one 
by one, 
Or, from the darken'd glen, 

" Saw God divide the night with flying 
flame, 
And thunder on the everlasting hills. 
I heard Him, for He spake, and grief 
became 
A solemn scorn of ills. 

" When the next moon was roll'd into 
the sky, 
Strength came to me that equall'd 
my desire. 
How beautiful a thing it was to die 
For God and for my sire ! 

" It comforts me in this one thought 
to dwell, 
That I subdued me to my father's 
will; 
Because the kiss he gave me, ere I 
fell, 
Sweetens the spirit still. 

" Moreover it is written that my race 
Hew'd Ammon, hip and thigh, from 
Aroer 
On Arnon unto Minneth." Here her 
face 
Glow'd as I look'd at her. 

She lock'd her lips : she left me where 
I stood : 
" Glory to God," she sang, and past 
afar, 
Thridding the sombre boskage of the 
wood, 
Toward the morning-star. 

Losing her carol I stood pensively, 
As one that from a casement leans 
his head, 
When midnight bells cease ringing 
suddenly, 
And the old year is dead. 



66 



THE BLACKBIRD. 



" Alas ! alas ! " a low voice, full of 
care, 
Murmur'd beside me : " Turn and 
look on me : 
I am that Rosamond, whom men call 
fair, 
If what I was I be. 

P 

" Would I had been some maiden 
coarse and poor ! 
me, that I should ever see the 
light ! 
Those dragon eyes of anger'd Eleanor 
Do hunt me, day and night." 

She ceased in tears, fallen from hope 
and trust : 
To whom the Egyptian : " 0, you 
tamely died ! 
You should have clung to Fulvia's 
waist, and thrust 
The dagger thro' her side." 

With that sharp sound the white 
dawn's creeping beams, 
Stol'n to my brain, dissolved the 
mystery 
Of folded sleep. The captain of my 
dreams 
Ruled in the eastern sky. 

Morn broadened on the borders of 
the dark, 
Ere I saw her, who clasp'd in her 
last trance 
Her murder'd father's head, or Joan 
of Arc, 
A light of ancient France ; 

Or her who knew that Love can van- 
quish Death, 
Who kneeling, with one arm about 
her king, 
Drew forth the poison with her balmy 
breath, 
Sweet as new buds in Spring. 

No memory labors longer from the 
deep 
Gold-mines of thought to lift the 
hidden ore 



That glimpses, moving up, than I from 
sleep 
To gather and tell o'er 

Each little sound and sight. With 
what dull pain 
Compass'd, how eagerly I sought to 
strike 
Into thai: wondrous track of dreams 
again ! 
But no two dreams are like. 

As when a soul laments, which hath 
been blest, 
Desiring what is mingled with past 
years, 
In yearnings that can never be exprest 
By signs or groans or tears ; 

Because all words, tho' cull'd with 
choicest art, 
Failing to give the bitter of the 
sweet, 
Wither beneath the palate, and the 
heart 
Faints, faded by its heat. 



THE BLACKBIRD. 
O blackbird ! sing me something 
well: 
While all the neighbors shoot thee 

round, 
I keep smooth plats of fruitful 
ground, 
Where thou may'st warble, eat and 
dwell. 

The espaliers and the standards all 
Are thine ; the range of lawn and 

park: 
The unnetted black-hearts ripen 
dark, 
All thine, against the garden wall. 

Yet, tho' I spared thee all the spring, 
Thy sole delight is, sitting still, 
With that gold dagger of thy bill 

Tp fret the summer jenneting. 

A golden bill ! the silver tongue, 
Cold February loved, is dry: 



THE DEATH OE THE OLD YEAR. 



67 



Plenty corrupts the melody 
That made thee famous once, when 
young : 

And in the sultry garden-squares, 
Now thy fiute notes are changed to 

coarse, 
I hear thee not at all, or hoarse 

As when a hawker hawks his wares. 

Take warning ! he that will not sing 
While yon sun prospers in the blue, 
Shall sing for want, ere leaves are 
new, 

Caught in the frozen palms of Spring. 



THE DEATH OF THE OLD 
YEAR. 

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, 
And the winter winds are wearily 
sighing : 
Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, 
And tread softly and speak low, 
For the old year lies a-dying. 

Old year; you must not die ; 
You came to us so readily, 
You lived with us so steadily, 
Old year, you shall not die. 

He lieth still : he doth not move : 

He will not see the dawn of day. 

He hath no other life above. 

He gave me a friend, and a true true- 
love, 

And the New-year will take 'em away. 
Old year, you must not go ; 
So long as you have been with us 
Such joy as you have seen with us, 
Old year, you shall not go. 

He froth'd his bumpers to the brim ; 

A jollier year we shall not see. 

3ut tho' his eyes are waxing dim, 

And tho' his foes speak ill of him, 

He was a friend to me. 

Old year, you shall not die ; 
We did so laugh and cry with you, 
I've half a mind to die with you, 
Old year, if you must die. 



He was full of joke and jest, 
But all his merry quips are o'er. 
To see him die, across the waste 
His son and heir doth ride post-haste, 
But he'll be dead before. 

Every one for his own. 

The night is starry and cold, my 
friend, 

And the New-year blithe and bold, 
my friend, 

Comes up to take his own. 

How hard he breathes ! over the snow 
I heard just now the crowing cock. 
The shadows flicker to and fro : 
The cricket chirps : the light burns 

low: 
'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. 

Shake hands, before you die. 

Old year, we'll dearly rue for you > 

What is it we can do for you ? 

Speak out before you die. 

His face is growing sharp and thin. 
Alack ! our friend is gone. 
Close up his eyes : tie up his chin : 
Step from the corpse, and let him in 
That standeth there alone, 

And waiteth at the door. 

There's a new foot on the floor, 
my friend, 

And a new face at the door, my 
friend, 

A new face at the door. 



TO J. S. 
The wind, that beats the mountain, 
blows 
More softly round the open wold, 
And gently comes the world to those 
That are cast in gentle mould. 

And me this knowledge bolder made, 
Or else I had not dared to flow 

In these words toward you, and invade 
Even with a verse your holy woe. 

'Tis strange that those we lean on 
most, 
Those in whose laps our limbs 
are nursed, 



(38 



ON A MOURNER. 



Fall into shadow, soonest lost : 

Those we love first are taken first. 

God gives us love. Something to love 
He lends us; but, when love is 
grown 

To ripeness, that on which it throve 
Falls off, and love is left alone. 

This is the curse of time. Alas! 

In grief I am not all unlearn'd ; 
Once thro' mine own doors Death did 
pass ; 
One went, who never hath re- 
turned. 

He will not smile — not speak to me 
Once more. Two years his chair 
is seen 
Empty before us. That was he 

Without whose life I had not 
been. 

Your loss is rarer ; for this star 

Rose with you thro' a little arc 

Of heaven, nor having wander'd far 
Shot on the sudden into dark, 

1 knew your brother : his mute dust 
I honor and his living worth : 

A man more pure and bold and just 
Was never born into the earth. 

I have not look'd upon you nigh, 

Since that dear soul hath fall'n 
asleep. 

Great Nature is more wise than I : 
I will not tell you not to weep. 

And tho' mine own eyes fill with dew, 
Drawn from the spirit thro' the 
brain, 
I will not even preach to you, 

" Weep, weeping dulls the inward 
pain." 

Let Grief be her own mistress still. 

She loveth her own anguish deep 
More than much pleasure. Let her 
will 

Be done — to weep or not to weep. 

I will not say, " God's ordinance 

Of Death is blown in every wind" ; 



For that is not a common chance 
That takes away a noble mind. 

His memory long will live alone 

In all our hearts, as mournful light 

That broods above the fallen sun, 
And dwells in heaven half the 

night. 

Vain solace ! Memory standing near 
Cast down her eyes, and in her 
throat 

Her voice seem'd distant, and a tear 
Dropt on the letters as I wrote. 

I wrote I know not what. In truth, 
How should I soothe you anyway, 

Who miss the brother of your youth ? 
Yet something I did wish to say : 

For he too was a friend to me : 

Both are my friends, and my true 
breast 

Bleedeth for both ; yet it may be 
That only silence suiteth best. 

Words weaker than your grief would 
make 
Grief more. 'Twere better I 
should cease 
Although myself could almost take 
The place of him that sleeps in 
peace. 

Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace : 
Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul, 

While the stars burn, the moons in- 
crease, 
And the great ages onward roll. 

Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. 
Nothing comes to thee new or 
strange. 
Sleep full of rest from head to feet ; 
Lie still, dry dust, secure of 
change. 



ON A MOURNER, 
i. 
Nature, so far as in her lies, 

Imitates God, and turns her face 
To every land beneath the skies, 



YOU ASK ME, WHY, THO' ILL AT EASE. 



69 



Counts nothing that she meets with 

base, 
But lives and loves in every place ; 



Fills out the homely quickset-screens, 
And makes the purple lilac ripe, 

Steps from her airy hill, and greens 
The swamp, where hums the drop- 
ping snipe, 
With moss and braidedmarish-pipe ; 



And on thy heart a finger lays, 

Saying, " Beat quicker, for the time 

Is pleasant, and the woods and ways 
Are pleasant, and the beech and 

lime 
Put forth and feel a gladder clime." 



And murmurs of a deeper voice, 
Going before to some far shrine, 

Teach that sick heart the stronger 
choice, 
Till all thy life one way incline 
With one wide Will that closes thine. 



And when the zoning eve has died 
Where yon dark valleys wind for- 
lorn, 
Come Hope and Memory, spouse and 
bride, 
From out the borders of the morn, 
With that fair child betwixt them 
born. 

VI. 

And when no mortal motion jars 
The blackness round the tombing 
sod, 
Thro' silence and the trembling stars 
Comes Faith from tracts no feet 

have trod, 
And Virtue, like a household god 

VII. 

Promising empire ; such as those 

Once heard at dead of night to greet 
Troy's wandering prince, so that he 
rose 



With sacrifice, while all the fleet 
Had rest by stony hills of Crete. 



You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease, 
Within this region I subsist, 
Whose spirits falter in the mist, 

And languish for the purple seas. 

It is the land that freemen till, 

That sober-suited Freedom chose, 
The land, where girt with friends 
or foes 

A man may speak the thing he will ; 

A land of settled government, 

A land of just and old renown, 
Where Freedom slowly broadens 
down 

From precedent to precedent : 

Where faction seldom gathers head, 
But by degrees to fulness wrought, 
The strength of some diffusive 
thought 
Hath time and space to work and 
spread. 

Should banded unions persecute 
Opinion, and induce a time 
When single thought is civil 
crime, 

And individual freedom mute ; 

Tho' Power should make from land 
to land 
The name of Britain trebly great — 
Tho' every channel of the State 
Should fill and choke with golden 
sand — 

Yet waft me from the harbor-mouth, 
Wild wind ! I seek a warmer sky, 
And I will see before I die 

The palms and temples of the South. 



Of old sat Freedom on the heights, 
The thunders breaking at her feet: 

Above her shook the starry lights : 
She heard the torrents meet. 



70 



LOVE THOU THY LAND. 



There in her place she did rejoice, 
Self-gather'd in her prophet-mind, 

But fragments of her mighty voice 
Came rolling on the wind. 

Then stept she down thro' town and 
field 

To mingle with the human race, 
And part by part to men reveal'd 

The fulness of her face — 

Grave mother of majestic works, 

From her isle-altar gazing down : 

Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks, 
And, King-like, wears the crown ; 

Her open eyes desire the truth. 

The wisdom of a thousand years 
Is in them. May perpetual youth 

Keep dry their light from tears ; 

That her fair form may stand and 
shine, 
Make bright our days and light 
our dreams, 
Turning to scorn with lips divine 
The falsehood of extremes ! 



Love thou thy land, with love far- 
brought 
From out the storied Past, and 

used 
Within the Present, but transfused 
Thro' future time by power of thought. 

True love turn'd round on fixed poles, 
Love, that endures not sordid ends, 
For Fnglish natures, freemen, 
friends, 

Thy brothers and immortal souls. 

But pamper not a hasty time, 
Nor feed with crude imaginings 
The herd, wild hearts and feeble 
wings 

That every sophister can lime. 

Deliver not the tasks of might 
To weakness, neither hide the ray 



From those, not blind, who wait for 
day, 
Tho' sitting girt with doubtful light. 

Make knowledge circle with the 
winds ; 
But let her herald, Keverence, fly 
Before her to whatever sky 
Bear seed of men and growth of 
minds. 

Watch what main-currents draw the 
years : 
Cut Prejudice against the grain : 
But gentle words are always gain : 

Regard the weakness of thy peers : 

Nor toil for title, place, or touch 
Of pension, neither count on praise : 
It grows to guerdon after-days : 

Nor deal in watch-words overmuch : 

Not clinging to some ancient saw ; 

Nor master'd by some modern term ; 

Not swift nor slow to change, but 
firm : 
And in its season bring the law ; 

That from Discussion's lip may fall 
With Life, that, working strongly, 

binds — 
Set in all lights by many minds, 

To close the interest of all. 

For Nature also, cold and warm, 
And moist and dry, devising long, 
Thro' many agents making strong, 

Matures the individual form. 

Meet is it changes should control 
Our being, lest we rust in ease. 
We all are changed by still degrees, 

All but the basis of the soul. 

So let the change which comes be 
free 
To ingroove itself with that which 

flies, 
And work, a joint of state, that plies 
Its office, moved with sympathy. 



ENGLAND AND AMERICA IN 1782. 



71 



A saying, hard to shape in act; 
For all the past of Time reveals 
A bridal dawn of thunder-peals, 

Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact. 

Ev'n now we hear with inward strife 
A motion toiling in the gloom — 
The Spirit of the years to come 

Yearning to mix himself with Life. 

A slow-develop'd strength awaits 
Completion in a painful school ; 
Phantoms of other forms of rule, 

New Majesties of mighty States — 

The warders of the growing hour, 
But vague in vapor, hard to mark ; 
And round them sea and air are 
dark 

With great contrivances of Power. 

Of many changes, aptly join'd, 
Is bodied forth the second whole. 
Regard gradation, lest the soul 

Of Discord race the rising wind ; 

A wind to puff your idol-fires, 

And heap their ashes on the head ; 
To shame the boast so often made, 

That we are wiser than our sires. 

Oh yet, if Nature's evil star 

Drive men in manhood, as in youth, 
To follow flying steps of Truth 

Across the brazen bridge of war — 

If New and Old, disastrous feud, 
Must ever shock, like armed foes, 
And this be true, till Time shall 
close, 

That Principles are rain'd in blood ; 

Not yet the wise of heart would cease 
To hold his hope thro' shame and 

guilt, 
But with his hand against the hilt, 
Would pace the troubled land, like 
Peace ; 

Not less, tho' dogs of Faction bay, 
Would serve his kind in deed and 
word, 



Certain, if knowledge bring the 
sword, 
That knowledge takes the sword 
away — 

Would love the gleams of good that 
broke 
From either side, nor veil his eyes : 
And if some dreadful need should 
rise 
Would strike, and firmly, and one 
stroke : 

To-morrow yet would reap to-day, 
As we bear blossom of the dead ; 
Earn well the thrifty months, nor 
wed 

Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay. 



ENGLAND AND AMERICA 
IN 1782. 

O thou, that sendest out the man 

To rule by land and sea, 
Strong mother of a Lion-line, 
Be proud of those strong sons of thine 

Who wrench'd their rights from 
thee ! 

What wonder, if in noble heat 

Those men thine arms withstood, 

Retaught the lesson thou hadst taught, 

And in thy spirit with thee fought — 

Who sprang from English blood ! 

But Thou rejoice with liberal joy, 

Lift up thy rocky face. 
And shatter, when the storms are 

black, 
In many a streaming torrent back, 

The seas that shock thy base ! 

Whatever harmonies of law 

The growing world assume, 
Thy work is thine — The single note 
From that deep chord which Hampden 
smote 
Will vibrate to the doom. 



72 



THE GOOSE. 



THE GOOSE. 

I knew an old wife lean and poor, 
Her rags scarce held together ; 

There strode a stranger to the door, 
And it was windy weather. 

He held a goose upon his arm, 
He utter'd rhyme and reason, 

" Here, take the goose, and keep you 
warm, 
It is a stormy season." 

She caught the white goose by the leg, 
A goose — 'twas no great matter. 

The goose let fall a golden egg 
With cackle and with clatter. 

She dropt the goose, and caught the 
pelf, 

And ran to tell her neighbors ; 
And bless'd herself, and cursed herself, 

And rested from her labors. 

And feeding high, and living soft, 
Grew plump and able-bodied ; 

Until the grave churchwarden doff d, 
The parson smirk'd and nodded. 

So sitting, served by man and maid, 
She felt her heart grow prouder : 

But ah ! the more the white goose laid 
It clack'd and cackled louder. 

It clutter'd here, it chuckled there ; 

It stirr'd the old wife's mettle : 
She shifted in her elbow-chair, 

And hurl'd the pan and kettle. 



" A quinsy choke thy cursed note ! " 
Then wax'd her anger stronger. 

" Go, take the goose, and wring her 
throat, 
I will not bear it longer." 

Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the 
cat; 

Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer. 
The goose flew this way and flew that, 

And fill'd the house with clamor. 

As head and heels upon the floor 
They flounder'd all together, 

There strode a stranger to the door, 
And it was windy weather : 

He took the goose upon his arm, 
He utter'd words of scorning; 

" So keep you cold, or keep you warm, 
It is a stormy morning." 

The wild wind rang from park and 
plain, 

And round the attics rumbled, 
Till all the tables danced again, 

And half the chimneys tumbled. 

The glass blew in, the fire blew out, 
The blast was hard and harder. 

Her cap blew off, her gown blew up, 
And a whirlwind clear'd the larder : 

And while on all sides breaking loose 
Her household fled the danger, 

Quoth she, " The Devil take the goose. 
And God forget the stranger ! " 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHEE POEMS. 



i^&c 



THE EPIC. 

At Francis Allen's on the Christmas- 
eve, — 

The game of forfeits done — the girls 
all kiss'd 

Beneath the sacred bush and past 
away — 

The parson Holmes, the poet Everard 
Hall, 

The host, and 1 sat round the wassail- 
bowl, 

Then half-way ebb'd : and there we 
held a talk, 

How all the old honor had from 
Christmas gone, 

Or gone, or dwindled down to some 
odd games 

In some odd nooks like this ; till I, 
tired out 

With cutting eights that day upon the 
pond, 

Where, three times slipping from the 
outer edge, 

I bump'd the ice into three several 
stars, 

Fell in a doze ; and half awake I 
heard 

The parson taking wide and wider 
sweeps, 

Now harping on the church-commis- 
sioners, 

Now hawking at Geology and schism ; 

Until 1 woke, and found him settled 
down 

Upon the general decay of faith 

Right thro' the world, " at home was 
little left, 



And none abroad : there was no 

anchor, none, 
To hold by." Francis, laughing, clapt 

his hand 
On Everard's shoulder, with " I hold 

by him." 
"And I," quoth Everard, "by the 

wassail-bowl." 
" Why yes," I said, " we knew your 

gift that way 
At college : but another which you 

had, 
I mean of verse (for so we held it 

then), 
What came of that 1 " " You know," 

said Frank, " he burnt 
His epic, his King Arthur, some twelve 

books" — 
And then to me demanding why? 

" Oh, sir, 
He thought that nothing new was said, 

or else 
Something so said 'twas nothing — 

that a truth 
Looks freshest in the fashion of the 

day: 
God knows : he has a mint of reasons : 

ask. 
It pleased me well enough." "Nay, 

nay," said Hall, 
" Why take the style of those heroic 

times 1 
For nature brings not back the Mas- 
todon, 
Nor we those times ; and why should 

any man 
Remodel models 1 these twelve books 

of mine 



74 



MORTE & ARTHUR. 



Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing- 
worth, 

Mere chaff and draff, much better 
burnt." " But I," 

Said Francis, " pick'd the eleventh 
from this hearth 

And have it : keep a thing, its use 
will come. 

I hoard it as a sugar-plum for Holmes." 

He laugh'd, and I, tho' sleepy, like a 
horse 

That hears the corn-bin open, prick'd 
my ears ; 

For I remember'd Everard's college 
fame 

When we were Freshmen : then at my 
request 

He brought it; and the poet little 
urged, 

But with some prelude of disparage- 
ment, 

Read, mouthing out his hollow oes 
and aes, 

Deep-chested music, and to this result. 



MORTE D'ARTHUR. 

So all day long the noise of battle 

roll'd 
Among the mountains by the winter 

sea; 
Until King Arthur's table, man by 

man, 
Had fallen in Lyonness about their 

Lord, 
King Arthur : then, because his wound 

was deep, 
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, 
Sir Bedivere, the last of all his 

knights, 
And bore him to a chapel nigh the 

field, 
A broken chancel with a broken cross, 
That stood on a dark strait of barren 

land. 
On one side lay the Ocean, and on one 
Lay a great water, and the moon was 

full. 
Then spake King Arthur to Sir 

Bedivere : 
" The sequel of to-day unsolders all 



The goodliest fellowship of famous 

knights 
Whereof this world holds record. 

Such a sleep 
They sleep — the men I loved. I 

think that we 
Shall nevermore, at any future time, 
Delight our souls with talk of knightly 

deeds, 
Walking about the gardens and the 

halls 
Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 
I perish by this people which I 

made, — 
Tho' Merlin sware that I should come 

again 
To rule once more — but let what will 

be, be, 
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm 
That without help I cannot last till 

morn. 
Thou therefore take my brand Ex- 

calibur, 
Which was my pride : for thou re- 

memberest how 
In those old days, one summer noon, 

an arm 
Rose up from out the bosom of the 

lake, 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful, 
Holding the sword — and how I row'd 

across 
And took it, and have worn it like a 

king: 
And, wheresoever I am sung or 

told 
In af tertime, this also shall be known : 
But now delay not : take Excalibur, 
And fling him far into the middle 

mere : 
Watch what thou seest, and lightly 

bring me word." 
To him replied the bold Sir Bedi- 
vere: 
" It is not meet, Sir King, to leave 

thee thus, 
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the 

helm. 
A little thing may harm a wounded 

man. 
Yet I thy hest will all perform at full, 



MORTE D' ARTHUR. 



75 



Watch what I see, and lightly bring 
thee word." 
So saying, from the ruin'd shrine 
he stept 

And in the moon athwart the place of 
tombs, 

Where lay the mighty bones of an- 
cient men, 

Old knights, and over them the sea- 
wind sang 

Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, 
stepping down 

By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed 
rock, 

Came on the shining levels of the lake. 
There drew he forth the brand 
Excalibur, 

And o'er him, drawing it, the winter 
moon, 

Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, 
ran forth 

And sparkled keen with frost against 
the hilt : 

For all the haft twinkled with dia- 
mond sparks, 

Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth- 
work 

Of subtlest jewelry. He gazed so long 

That both his eyes were dazzled, as 
he stood, 

This way and that dividing the swift 
mind, 

In act to throw: but at the last it 
seem'd 

Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd 

There in the many-knotted water-flags, 

That whistled stiff and dry about tiie 
marge. 

So strode he back slow to the wounded 
King. 
Then spake King Arthur to Sir 
Bedivere : 

" Hast thou perform'd my mission 
which I gave ? 

What is it thou hast seen ? or what 
hast heard ? " 
And answer made the bold Sir 
Bedivere : 

"I heard the ripple washing in the 
reeds, 

And the wild water lapping on the 
crag." 



To whom replied King Arthur, faint 

and pale : 
"Thou hast betraj^'d thy nature and 

thy name, 
Not rendering true answer, as be- 

seem'd 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight : 
For surer sign had follow'd, either 

hand, 
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 
This is a shameful thing for men to 

lie. 
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go 

again 
As thou art lief and dear, and do the 

thing 
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring 

me word." 
Then went Sir Bedivere the second 

time 
Across the ridge, and paced beside 

the mere, 
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in 

thought ; 
But when he saw the wonder of the 

hilt, 
How curiously and strangely chased, 

he smote 
His palms together, and he cried aloud, 
"And if indeed I cast the brand 

away, 
Surely a precious thing, one worthy 

note, 
Should thus be lost for ever from the 

earth, 
Which might have pleased the eyes 

of many men. 
What good should follow this, if this 

were done ? 
What harm, undone ? deep harm to 

disobey, 
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
Were it well to obey them, if a king 

demand 
An act unprofitable, against himself * 
The King is sick, and knows not what 

he does. 
What record, or what relic of my lord 
Should be to aftertime, but empty 

breath 
And rumors of a doubt 1 but were 

this kept, 



76 



MORTE U ARTHUR. 



Stored in some treasure-house of 

mighty kings, 
Some one might show it at a joust of 

arms, 
Saying, ' King Arthur's sword, Excali- 
bur, 
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the 

Lake. 
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in 

the deeps 
Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' 
So might some old man speak in the 

aftertime 
To all the people, winning reverence. 
But now much honor and much fame 

were lost." 
So spake he, clouded with his own 

conceit, 
And hid Excalibur the second time, 
And so strode back slow to the 

wounded King. 
Then spoke King Arthur, breathing 

heavily : 
" What is it thou hast seen ? or what 

hast heard ? " 
And answer made the bold Sir 

Bedivere : 
"I heard the water lapping on the 

crag, 
And the long ripple washing in the 

reeds." 
To whom replied King Arthur, 

much in wrath : 
"Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
Unknightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is 

me ! 
Authority forgets a dying king, 
Laid widow'd of the power in his 

eye 
That bow'd the will. I see thee what 

thou art, 
For thou, the latest-left of all my 

knights, 
In whom should meet the offices of all, 
Thou wouldst betray me for the 

precious hilt ; 
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, 
And the third time may prosper, get 

thee hence : 
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 



I will arise and slay thee with my 

hands." 
Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and 

ran, 
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, 

plunged 
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd 

the sword, 
And strongly wbeel'd and threw it. 

The great brand 
Made lightnings in the splendor of 

the moon, 
And flashing round and round, and 

whirl'd in an arch, 
Shot like a streamer of the northern 

morn, 
Seen where the moving isles of win- 
ter shock 
By night, with noises of the northern 

sea. 
So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur : 
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an 

arm 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful, 
And caught him by the hilt, and 

brandish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in 

the mere. 
And lightly went the other to the 

King. 
Then spoke King Arthur, drawing 

thicker breath : 
" Now see I by thine eyes that this is 

done. 
Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, 

or seen? " 
And answer made the bold Sir 

Bedivere : 
" Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest 

the gems 
Should blind my purpose, for I never 

saw, 
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I 

die, 
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal 

men, 
So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
Then with both hands I flung him, 

wheeling him ; 
But when I look'd again, behold an 

arm, 






MORTE & ARTHUR. 



77 



Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful, 
That caught him by the hilt, and 

brandish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in 

the mere." 
And answer made King Arthur, 

breathing hard : 
" My end draws nigh ; 'tis time that I 

were gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive 

my weight, 
And bear me to the margin; yet I 

fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I 

shall die:" 
So saying, from the pavement he 

half rose, 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his 

arm, 
And looking wistfully with wide blue 

eyes 
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears, 
And would have spoken, but he found 

not words, 
Then took with care, and kneeling on 

one knee, 
O'er both his shoulders drew the lan- 
guid hands, 
And rising bore him thro' the place 

of tombs. 
But, as he walk'd, King Arthur 

panted hard, 
Like one that feels a nightmare on 

his bed 
When all the house is mute. So 

sigh'd the King, 
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, 

" Quick, quick ! 
I fear it is too late, and I shall die." 
But the other swiftly strode from 

ridge to ridge, 
Clothed with his breath, and looking, 

as he walk'd, 
Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a 

cry 
Before. His own thought drove him, 

like a goad. 
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy 

caves 



And barren chasms, and all to left 

and right 
The bare black cliff clang'd round 

him, as he based 
His feet on juts of slippery crag that 

rang 
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed 

heels — 
And on a sudden, lo! the level lake, 
And the long glories of the winter 

moon. 
Then saw they how there hove a 

dusky barge, 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem 1 o 

stern, 
Beneath them ; and descending they 

were ware 
That all the decks were dense with 

stately forms 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a 

dream — by these 
Three Queens with crowns of gold — 

and from them rose 
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling 

stars, 
Ami, as it were one voice an agony 
Of lamentation, like a wind, that 

shrills 
All night in a waste land, where no 

one comes, 
Or hath come, since the making of 

the world. 
Then murmur'd Arthur, " Place me 

in the barge," 
And to the barge they came. There 

those three Queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the 

King, and wept. 
But she, that rose the tallest of them 

all 
And fairest, laid his head upon her 

lap, 
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and 

chafed his hands, 
And call'd him by his name, com- 
plaining loud, 
And dropping bitter tears against hi,., 

brow 
Striped with dark blood : for all his 

face was white 
And colorless, and like the wither'cl 

moon 



78 



MORTE U ARTHUR. 



Smote by the fresh beam of the 

springing east ; 
And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd 

with drops 
Of onset ; and the light and lustrous 

curls — 
That made his forehead like a rising 

sun 
High from the dais-throne — were 

parch'd with dust ; 
Or, clotted into points and hanging 

loose, 
Mix'd with the knightly growth that 

fringed his lips. 
So like a shatter'd column lay the 

King; 
Not like that Arthur who, with lance 

in rest, 
From spur to plume a star of tourna- 
ment, 
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and 

charged 
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 
Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedi- 

vere, 
" Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall 

I go? 
Where shall I hide my forehead and 

my eyes ? 
For now I see the true old times are 

dead, 
When every morning brought a noble 

chance, 
And every chance brought out a noble 

knight. 
Such times have been not since the 

light that led 
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. 
But now the whole round table is 

dissolved 
Which was an image of the mighty 

world ; 
And I, the last, go forth companion- 
less, 
And the days darken round me, and 

the years, 
Among new men, strange faces, other 

minds." 
And slowly answered Arthur from 

the barge : 
" The old order changeth, yielding 

place to new, 



And God fulfils Himself in many ways, 
Lest one good custom should corrupt 

the world. 
Comfort thyself : what comfort is in 

me? 
I have lived my life, and that which I 

have done 
May He within Himself make pure! 

but thou, 
If thou shouldst never see my face 

again, 
Pray for my soul. More things are 

wrought by prayer 
Than this world dreams of. Where- 
fore, let thy voice 
Rise like a fountain for me night and 

day. 
For what are men better than sheep 

or goats 
That nourish a blind life within the 

brain, 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands 

of prayer 
Both for themselves and those who 

call them friend 1 
For so the whole round earth is every 

way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet 

of God. 
But now farewell. I am going a long 

way 
With these thou seest — if indeed I 

go — 
(For all my mind is clouded with a 

doubt) 
To the island-valley of Avilion ; 
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any 

snow, 
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it 

lies 
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with 

orchard-lawns 
And bowery hollows crown'd with 

summer sea, 
Where I will heal me of my grievous 

wound." 
So said he, and the barge with oar 

and sail 
Moved from the brink, like some full- 
breasted swan 
That, fluting a wild carol ere her 

death, 



THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER. 



79 



Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes 

the flood 
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir 

Bedivere 
Revolving many memories, till the 

hull 
Look'd one black dot against the verge 

of dawn, 
And on the mere the wailing, died 

away. 

Here ended Hall, and our last light, 

that long 
Had wink'd and threaten'd darkness, 

flared and fell : 
At which the Parson, sent to sleep 

with sound, 
And waked with silence, grunted 

" Good ! " but we 
Sat rapt : it was the tone with which 

he read — 
Perhaps some modeiTi touches here 

and there 
Redeem'd it from the charge of noth- 
ingness — 
Or else we loved the man, and prized 

his work; 
I know not: but we sitting, as I said, 
The cock crew loud ; as at that time 

of year 
The lusty bird takes every hour for 

dawn : 
Then Francis, muttering, like a man 

ill-used, 
"There now — that's nothing!" drew 

a little back, 
And drove his heel into the smoul- 

der'd log, 
That sent a blast of sparkles up the 

flue: 
And so to bed ; where yet in sleep I 

seem'd 
To sail with Arthur under looming 

shores, 
Point after point; till on to dawn, 

when dreams 
Begin to feel the truth and stir of 

day, 
To me, methought, who waited with a 

crowd, 
There came a bark that, blowing for- 
ward, bore 



King Arthur, like a modern gentle- 
man 
Of stateliest port ; and all the people 

cried, 
"Arthur is come again: he cannot 

die." 
Then those that stood upon the hills 

behind 
Repeated — "Come again, and thrice 

as fair ; " 
And, further inland, voices echoed — 

"Come 
With all good things, and war shall 

be no more." 
At this a hundred bells began to peal, 
That with the sound I woke, and heard 

indeed 
The clear church-bells ring in the 

Christmas-morn. 



THE GARDENER'S 
DAUGHTER; 

OR, THE PICTURES. 

This morning is the morning of the 

day, 
When I and Eustace from the city 

went 
To see the Gardener's Daughter; I 

and he, 
Brothers in Art ; a friendship so com- 
plete 
Portion'd in halves between us, that 

we grew 
The fable of the city where we dwelt. 
My Eustace might have sat for 

Hercules ; 
So muscular he spread, so broad of 

breast. 
He, by some law that holds in love, 

and draws 
The greater to the lesser, long desired 
A certain miracle of symmetry, 
A miniature of loveliness, all grace 
Summ'd up and closed in little; — 

Juliet, she 
So light of foot, so light of spirit — 

oh, she 
To me myself, for some three careless 

moons, 
The summer pilot of an empty heart 



80 



THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER. 



Unto the shores of nothing ! Know 

you not 
Such touches are but embassies of 

love, 
To tamper with the feelings, ere he 

found 
Empire for life ? but Eustace painted 

her, 
And said to me, she sitting with us 

then, 
" When will you paint like this? " and 

I replied, 
(My words were half in earnest, half 

in jest,) 
" 'Tis not your work, but Love's. 

Love, unperceived, 
A more ideal Artist he than all, 
Came, drew your pencil from yon, 

made those eyes 
Darker than darkest pansies, and that 

hair 
More black than ashbuds in the front 

of March." 
And Juliet answer'd laughing, "Go 

and see 
The Gardener's daughter: trust me, 

after that, 
You scarce can fail to match his mas- 
terpiece." 
And up we rose, and on the spur we 

went. 
Not wholly in the busy world, nor 

quite 
Beyond it, blooms the garden that I 

love. 
News from the humming city comes 

to it 
In sound of funeral or of marriage 

bells ; 
And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, 

you hear 
The windy clanging of the minster 

clock ; 
Although between it and the garden 

lies 
A league of grass, wash'd by a slow 

broad stream, 
That, stirr'd with languid pulses of the 

oar, 
Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on, 
Barge-laden, to three arches of a 

bridge 



Crown'd with the minster-towers. 

The fields between 
Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep- 

udder'd kine, 
And all about the large lime feathers 

low, 
The lime a summer home of murmur- 
ous wings. 
In tljat still place she, hoarded in 

herself, 
Grew, seldom seen ; not less among us 

lived 
Her fame from lip to lip. Who had 

not heard 
Of Rose, the Gardener's daughter 1 

Where was he, 
So blunt in memory, so old at heart, 
At such a distance from his youth in 

grief, 
That, having seen, forgot? The com- 
mon mouth, 
So gross to express delight, in praise 

of her 
Grew oratory. Such a lord is Love, 
And Beauty such a mistress of the 

world. 
And if I said that Fancy, led by 

Love, 
Would play with flying forms and 

images, 
Yet this is also true, that, long before 
I look'd upon her, when I heard her 

name 
My heart was like a prophet to my 

heart, 
And told me I should love. A crowd 

of hopes, 
That sought to sow themselves like 

winged seeds, 
Born out of everything I heard and 

saw, 
Flutter'd about my senses and my soul ; 
And vague desires, like fitful blasts of 

balm 
To one that travels quickly, made the 

air 
Of Life delicious, and all kinds of 

thought, 
That verged upon them, sweeter than 

the dream 
Dream'd by a happy man, when the 

dark East, 



THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER. 



SI 



Unseen, is brightening to his bridal 

morn. 
And sure this orbit of the memory 

folds 
For ever in itself the day we went 
To see her. All the land in flowery 

squares, 
Beneath a broad and equal-blowing 

wind. 
Smelt of the coming summer, as one 

large cloud 
Drew downward : but all else of 

heaven was pure 
Up to the Sun, and May from verge 

to verge, 
And May with me from head to heel. 

And now, 
As tho' 'twere yesterday, as tho' it 

were 
The hour just flown, that morn with 

all its sound, 
(For those old Mays had thrice the 

life of these,) 
Rings in mine ears. The steer forgot 

to graze, 
And, where the hedge-row cuts the 

pathway, stood, 
Leaning his horns into the neighbor 

field, 
And lowing to his fellows. From the 

woods 
Came voices of the well-contented 

doves. 
The lark could scarce get out his notes 

for joy, 
But shook his song together as he 

near'd 
His happy home, the ground. To left 

and right, 
The cuckoo told his name to all the 

hills; 
The mellow ouzel fluted in the elm ; 
The redcap whistled ; and the night- 
ingale 
Sang loud, as tho' he were the bird of 

day. 
And Eustace turn'd, and smiling 

said to me, 
" Hear how the bushes echo ! by my 

life, 
These birds have joyful thoughts. 

Think you they sing 



Like poets, from the vanity of song? 
Or have they any sense of why they 

sing ? 
And would they praise the heavens 

for what they have ? " 
And I made answer, " Were there 

nothing else 
For which to praise the heavens but 

only love, 
That only love were cause enough for 

praise." 
Lightly he laugh'd, as one that read 

my thought, 
And on we went ; but ere an hour had 

pass'd, 
We reach'd a meadow slanting to the 

North ; 
Down which a well-worn pathway 

courted us 
To one green wicket in a privet hedge ; 
This, yielding, gave into a grassy 

walk 
Thro* crowded lilac-ambush trimly 

pruned ; 
And one warm gust, full-fed with per- 
fume, blew 
Beyond us, as we enter'd in the cool. 
The garden stretches southward. In 

the midst 
A cedar spread his dark-green layers 

of shade. 
The garden-glasses shone, and mo- 
mently 
The twinkling laurel scatter'd silver 

lights. 
" Eustace," I said, " this wonder 

keeps the house." 
He nodded, but a moment afterwards 
He cried, "Look! look!" Before he 

ceased I turn'd, 
And, ere a star can wink, beheld her 

there. 
For up the porch there grew an 

Eastern rose, 
That, flowering high, the last night's 

gale had caught, 
And blown across the walk. One arm 

aloft — 
Gown'd in pure white, that fitted to 

the shape — 
Holding the bush, to fix it back, she 

stood, 



82 



THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER. 



A single stream of all her soft brown 
hair 

Pour'd on one side : the shadow of the 
flowers 

Stole all the golden gloss, and, wav- 
ering 

Lovingly lower, trembled on her 
waist — 

Ah, happy shade — and still went 
wavering down, 

But, ere it touch'd a foot, that might 
have danced 

The greensward inio greener circles, 
dipt, 

And mix'd with shadows of the com- 
mon ground. 

But the full day dwelt on her brows, 
and sunn'd 

Her violet eyes, ayd all her Hebe 
bloom, 

And doubled his own warmth against 
her lips, 

And on the bounteous wave of such a 
breast 

As never pencil drew. Half light, 
half shade, 

She stood, a sight to make an old 
man young. 
So rapt, we near'd the house ; but 
she, a Rose 

In roses, mingled with her fragrant 
toil, 

Nor heard us come, nor from her tend- 
ance turn'd 

Into the world without; till close at 
hand, 

And almost ere I knew mine own in- 
tent, 

This murmur broke the stillness of 
that air 

Which brooded round about her : 

" Ah, one rose, 

One rose, but one, by those fair fingers 
cull'd, 

Were worth a hundred kisses press'd 
on lips 

Less exquisite than thine." 

She look'd : but all 

Suffused with blushes — neither self- 
possess'd 

Nor startled, but betwixt this mood 
and that, 



Divided in a graceful quiet — paused, 

And dropt the branch she held, and 
turning, wound 

Her looser hair in braid, and stirr'd 
her lips 

For some sweet answer, tho' no answer 
came, 

Nor yet refused the rose, but granted it, 

And moved away, and left me, statue- 
like, 

In act to render thanks. 

I, that whole day, 

Saw her no more, altho' I linger'd 
there 

Till every daisy slept, and Love's 
white star 

Beam'd thro' the thickened cedar in 
the dusk. 
So home we went, and all the live- 
long way 

With solemn gibe did Eustace banter 
me. 

"Now," said he, "will you climb the 
top of Art. 

You cannot fail but work in hues to 
dim 

The Titianic Flora. Will you match 

My Juliet? you, not you, — the Mas- 
ter, Love, 

A more ideal Artist he than all." 
So home I went, but could not sleep 
for joy, 

Reading her perfect features in the 
gloom, 

Kissing the rose she gave me o'er and 
o'er, 

And shaping faithful record of the 
glance 

That graced the giving — such a noise 
of life 

Swarm'd in the golden present, such 
a voice 

Call'd to me from the years to come, 
and such 

A length of bright horizon rimm'd the 
dark. 

And all that night I heard the watch- 
man peal 

The sliding season : all that night I 
heard 

The heavy clocks knolling the drowsy 
hours. 






THE GARDENERS DAUGHTER. 



83 



The drowsy hours, dispensers of all 

good, 
O'er the mute city stole with folded 

wings, 
Distilling odors on me as they went 
To greet their fairer sisters of the East. 
Love at first sight, first-born, and 

heir to all, 
Made this night thus. Henceforward 

squall nor storm 
Could keep me from that Eden where 

she dwelt. 
Light pretexts drew me; sometimes a 

Dutch love 
For tulips; then for roses, moss or 

musk, 
To grace my city rooms ; or fruits and 

cream 
Served in the weeping elm ; and more 

and more 
A word could bring the color to my 

cheek ; 
A thought would fill my eyes with 

happy dew ; 
Love trebled life within me, and with 

each 
The year increased. 

The daughters of the year, 
One after one, thro' that still garden 

pass'd ; 
Each garlanded with her peculiar 

flower 
Danced into light, and died into the 

shade ; 
And each in passing touch'd with some 

new grace 
Or seem'd to touch her, so that day 

by day, 
Like one that never can be wholly 

known, 
Her beauty grew ; till Autumn brought 

an hour 
For Eustace, when I heard his deep 

"I will," 
Breathed, like the covenant of a God, 

to hold 
From thence thro' all the worlds : but 

I rose up 
Full of his bliss, and following her 

dark eyes 
Felt earth as air beneath me, till I 

reach'd 



The wicket-gate, and found her stand- 
ing there. 
There sat we down upon a garden 

mound, 
Two mutually enfolded; Love, the 

third, 
Between us, in the circle of his arms 
Enwound us both ; and over many a 

range 
Of waning lime the gray cathedral 

towers, 
Across a hazy glimmer of the west, 
Reveal'd their shining windows : from 

them clash'd 
The bells ; we listen'd ; with the time 

we play'd, 
We spoke of other things ; we coursed 

about 
The subject most at heart, more near 

and near, 
Like doves about a dovecote, wheeling 

round 
The central wish, until we settled there. 
Then, in that time and place, I spoke 

to her, 
Requiring, tho' I knew it was mine 

own, 
Yet for the pleasure that I took to 

hear, 
Requiring at her hand the greatest gift, 
A woman's heart, the heart of her I 

loved; 
And in that time and place she an- 

swer'd me, 
And in the compass of three little 

words, 
More musical than ever came in one, 
The silver fragments of a broken 

voice, 
Made me most happy, faltering, " I am 

thine." 
Shall I cease here 1 Is this enough 

to say 
That my desire, like all strongest 

hopes, 
By its own energy fulfilFd itself, 
Merged in completion 1 Would you 

learn at full 
How passion rose thro' circumstantial 

grades 
Beyond all grades develop'd 1 and in 

deed 



34 



DORA. 



I had not staid so long to tell you all, 

But while I mused came Memory with 
sad eyes, 

Holding the folded annals of my 
youth ; 

And while I mused, Love with knit 
brows went by, 

And with a flying finger swept my lips, 

And spake, " Be wise : not easily for- 
given 

Are those, who setting wide the doors 
that bar 

The secret bridal chambers of the 
heart, 

Let in the day." Here, then, my words 
have end. 
Yet might I tell of meetings, of fare- 
wells — 

Of that which came between, more 
sweet than each, 

In whispers, like the whispers of the 
leaves 

That tremble round a nightingale — 
in sighs 

Which perfect Joy, perplex'd for ut- 
terance, 

Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might 
I not tell 

Of difference, reconcilement, pledges 
given, 

And vows, where there was never need 
of vows, 

And kisses, where the heart on one 
wild leap 

Hung tranced from all pulsation, as 
above 

The heavens between their fairy fleeces 
pale 

Sow'd all their mystic gulfs with fleet- 
ing stars ; 

Or while the balmy glooming, crescent- 
lit, 

Spread the light haze along the river- 
shores, 

And in the hollows ; or as once we met 

Unheedful, tho' beneath a whispering 
rain 

Night slid down one long stream of 
sighing wind, 

And in her bosom bore the baby, Sleep. 
But this whole hour your eyes have 
been intent 



On that veil'd picture — veil'd, for 

what it holds 
May not be dwelt on by the common 

day. 
This prelude has prepared thee. Raise 

thy soul; 
Make thine heart ready with thine 

eyes : the time 
Is come to raise the veil. 

Behold her there, 
As I beheld her ere she knew my heart, 
My first, last love; the idol of my 

youth, 
The darling of my manhood, and, alas S 
Now the most blessed memory of mine 



DORA. 

With farmer Allan at the farm abode 
William and Dora. William was his 

son, 
And she his niece. He often look'd 

at them, 
And often thought, " I'll make them 

man and wife." 
Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, 
Andyearn'd towards William; but the 

youth, because 
He had been always with her in the 

house, 
Thought not of Dora. 

Then there came a day 
When Allan call'd his son, and said, 

" My son : 
I married late, but I would wish to see 
My grandchild on my knees before I 

die: 
And I have set my heart upon a match. 
Now therefore look to Dora ; she is 

well 
To look to ; thrifty too beyond her age. 
She is my brother's daughter : he and I 
Had once hard words, and parted, and 

he died 
In foreign lands ; but for his sake I 

bred 
His daughter Dora : take her for your 

wife ; 
For I have wish'd this marriage, night 

and day, 




" And Dora took the child and went her way 
Across the wheat and sat upon a mound." 

Page 85. 



DORA. 



85 



For many years." But William an- 

swer'd short ; 
" I cannot marry Dora ; by my life, 
1 will not marry Dora." Then the old 

man 
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, 

and said : 
" You will not, boy ! you dare to an- 
swer thus ! 
But in my time a father's word was 

law, 
And so it shall be now for me. Look 

to it ; 
Consider, William : take a month to 

think, 
And let me have an answer to my 

wish ; 
Or, by the Lord that made me, you 

shall pack, 
And never more darken my doors 

again." 
But William answer' d madly ; bit his 

lips, 
And broke away. The more he look'd 

at her 
The less he liked her; and his ways 

were harsh ; 
But Dora bore them meekly. Then 

before 
The month was out he left his father's 

house, 
And hired himself to work within the 

fields ; 
And half in love, half spite, he woo'd 

and wed 
A iaborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. 
Then, when the bells were ringing, 

Allan call'd 
His niece and said : " My girl, I love 

you well ; 
But if you s*peak with him that was 

my son, 
Or change a word with her he calls his 

wife, 
My home is none of yours. My will 

is law." 
And Dora promised, being meek. She 

thought, 
" it cannot be : my uncle's mind will 

change ! " 
And days went on, and there was 

born a boy 



To William ; then distresses came on 

him ; 
And day by day he pass'd his father's 

gate, 
Heart-broken, and his father help'd 

him not. 
But Dora stored what little she could 

save, 
And sent it them by stealth, nor did 

they know 
Who sent it ; till at last a fever seized 
On William, and in harvest time he 

died. 
Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat 
And look'd with tears upon her boy, 

and thought 
Hard things of Dora. Dora came and 

said : 
" I have obey'd my uncle until now, 
And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' 

me 
This evil came on William at the first. 
But, Mary, for the sake of him that's 

gone, 
And for your sake, the woman that he 

chose, 
And for this orphan, I am come to 

you: 
You know there has not been for these 

five years 
So full a harvest: let me take the 

boy, 
And I will set him in my uncle's eye 
Among the wheat ; that when his heart 

is glad 
Of the full harvest, he may see the 

boy, 
And bless him for the sake of him 

that's gone." 
And Dora took the child, and went 

her way 
Across the wheat, and sat upon a 

mound 
That was unsown, where many poppies 

grew. 
Far off the farmer came into the field 
And spied her not ; for none of all his 

men 
Dare tell him Dora waited with the 

child ; 
And Dora would have risen and gone 

to him, 



86 



DORA. 



But her heart f ail'd her ; and the reap- 
ers reap'd, 
And the sun fell, and all the land was 

dark. 
But when the morrow came, she rose 

and took 
The child once more, and sat upon the 

mound ; 
And made a little wreath of all the 

flowers 
That grew about, and tied it round his 

hat 
To make him pleasing in her uncle's 

eye. 
Then when the farmer pass'd into the 

field 
He spied her, and he left his men at 

work, 
And came and said : " Where were you 

yesterday ? 
Whose child is that ? What are you 

doing here ? " 
So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, 
And answer'd softly, "This is Wil- 
liam's child ! " 
"And did I not," said Allan, "did I 

not 
Forbid you, Dora ? " Dora said again : 
" Do with me as you will, but take the 

child, 
And bless him for the sake of him 

that's gone ! " 
And Allan said, "I see it is a trick 
Got up betwixt you and the woman 

there. 
I must be taught my duty, and by you ! 
You knew my word was law, and yet 

you dared 
To slight it. Well — for I will take 

the boy ; 
But go you hence, and never see me 

more." 
So saying, he took the boy that cried 

aloud 
And struggled hard. The wreath of 

flowers fell 
At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her 

hands, 
And the boy's cry came to her from the 

field, 
More and more distant. She bow'd 

down her head, 



Remembering the day when rirst she 

came, 
And all the things that had been. She 

bow'd down 
And wept in secret ; and the reapers 

reap'd, 
And the sun fell, and ah the land was 

dark. 
Then Dora went to Mary's house, 

and stood 
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the 

boy 
Was not with Dora. She broke out 

in praise 
To God, that help'd her in her widow- 
hood. 
And Dora said, " My uncle took the 

boy; 
But, Mary, let me live and work with 

you: 
He says that he will never see me 

more." 
Then answer'd Mary, " This shall never 

be, 
That thou shouldst take my trouble 

on thyself : 
And, now I think, he shall not have 

/ the boy, 
For he will teach him hardness, and 

to slight 
His mother; therefore thou and I will 

go, 
And I will have my boy, and bring 

him home ; 
And I will beg of him to take thee 

back : 
But if he will not take thee back 

again, 
Then thou and I will live within one 

house, 
And work for William's- child, until 

he grows 
Of age to help us." 

So the women kiss'd 
Each other, and set out, and reach'd 

the farm. 
The door was off the latch : they 

peep'd, and saw 
The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's 

knees, 
Who thrust him in the hollows of his 

arm, 



AUDLEY COURT. 



87 



And clapt him on the hands and on 

the cheeks, 
Like one that loved him : and the lad 

stretch'd out 
And babbled for the golden seal, that 

hung 
From Allan's watch, and sparkled by 

the fire. 
Then they came in : but when the boy 

beheld 
His mother, he cried out to come to her : 
And Allan set him down, and Mary 

said : 
" Father ! — if you let me call 

you so — 
I never came a-begging for myself, 
Or William, or this child ; but now I 

come 
For Dora : take her back ; she loves 

you well. 

Sir, when William died, he died at 

peace 
With all men ; for I ask'd him, and he 

said, 
He could not ever rue his marrying 

me — 

1 had been a patient wife : but, Sir, 

he said 
That he was wrong to cross his father 

thus : 
'God bless him! 5 he said, 'and may 

he never know 
The troubles I have gone thro' ! ' 

Then he turn'd 
His face and pass'd — unhappy that I 

am ! 
But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for 

you 
Will make him hard; and he will learn 

to slight 
His father's memory ; and take Dora 

back, 
And let all this be as it was before." 

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face 
By Mary. There was silence in the 

room ; 
And all at once the old man burst in 

sobs : — 
"I have been to blame — to blame. 

1 have killed my son. 
I have kill'd him — but I loved him 

— my dear son. 



May God forgive me ! — I have been 
to blame. 

Kiss me, my children." 

Then they clung about 

The old man's neck, and kiss'd him 
many times. 

And all the man was broken with re- 
morse ; 

And all his love came back a hundred- 
fold; 

And for three hours he sobb'd o'er 
William's child 

Thinking of William. 

So those four abode 

Within one house together ; and as 
years 

Went forward, Mary took another 
mate; 

But Dora lived unmarried till her 
death. 



AUDLEY COURT. 

"The Bull, the Fleece are cramm'd, 

and not a room 
For love or money. Let us picnic 

there 
At Audley Court." 

I spoke, while Audley feast 
Humm'd like a hive all round the 

narrow quay, 
To Francis, with a basket on his arm, 
To Francis just alighted from the boat, 
And breathing of the sea. " With all 

my heart," 
Said Francis. Then we shoulder'd 

thro' the swarm, 
And rounded by the stillness of the 

beach 
To where the bay runs up its latest 

horn. 
We left the dying ebb that faintly 

lipp'd 
The flat red granite ; so by many a 

sweep 
Of meadow smooth from aftermath 

we reach'd 
The griffin-guarded gates, and pass'd 

thro' all 
The pillar'd dusk of sounding syca- 
mores, 



AUDLEY COURT. 



And cross'd the garden to the gar- 
dener's lodge, 
With all its easements bedded, and its 

walls 
And chimneys muffled in the leafy 

vine. 
There, on a slope of orchard, Fran- 
cis laid 
A damask napkin wrought with horse 

and hound, 
Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt 

of home, 
And, half-cut-down, a pasty costly- 
made, 
Where quail and pigeon, lark and lev- 
eret lay, 
Like fossils of the rock, with golden 

yolks 
Imbedded and injellied; last, with 

these, 
A flask of cider from his father's 

vats, 
Prime, which I knew ; and so we sat 

and eat 
And talk'd old matters over; who was 

dead, 
Who married, who was like to be, and 

how 
The races went, and who would rent 

the hall : 
Then touched upon the game, how 

scarce it was 
This season; glancing thence, dis- 

cuss'd the farm, 
The four-field system, and the price of 

grain ; 
And struck upon the corn-laws, where 

we split, 
And came again together on the king 
With heated faces; till he laugh'd 

aloud ; 
And, while the blackbird on the pippin 

hung 
To hear him, clapt his hand in mine 

and sang — 
"Oh! who would fight and march 

and countermarch, 
Be shot for sixpence in a battle-field, 
And shovell'd up into some bloody 

trench 
Where no one knows ? but let me live 

my life. 



"Oh! who would cast and balance 

at a desk, 
Perch'd like a crow upon a three- 

legg'cl stool, 
Till all his juice is dried, and all his 

joints 
Are full of chalk % but let me live my 

life. 
" Who'd serve the state ? for if I 

carved my name 
Upon the cliffs that guard my native 

land, 
I might as well have traced it in the 

sands ; 
The sea wastes all : but let me live my 

life. 
"Oh! who would love? I woo'd a 

woman once, 
But she was sharper than an eastern 

wind, 
And all my heart turn'd from her, as 

a thorn 
Turns from the sea ; but let me live 

my life." 
He sang his song, and I replied with 

mine : 
I found it in a volume, all of songs, 
Knock'd down to me, when old Sir 

Robert's pride, 
His books — the more the pity, so I 

said — 
Came to the hammer here in March — 

and this — 
I set the words, and added names I 

knew. 
" Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep, and 

dream of me : 
Sleep, Ellen, folded in thy sister's arm, 
And sleeping, haply dream her arm is 

mine. 
" Sleep, Ellen, folded in Emilia's 

arm; 
Emilia, fairer than all else but thou, 
For thou art fairer than all else that is. 
"Sleep, breathing health and peace 

upon her breast : 
Sleep, breathing love and trust against 

her lip : 
I go to-night : I come to-morrow morn. 
" I go, but I return : I would I were 
The pilot of the darkness and the 

dream. 



WALKING TO THE MAIL. 



m 



Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, love, and dream 

of me." 
So sang we each to either, Francis 

Hale, 
The farmer's son, who lived across the 

bay, 
My friend ; and I, that having where- 
withal, 
And in the fallow leisure of my life 
A rolling stone of here and every- 
where, 
Did what I would ; but ere the night 

we rose 
And saunter'd home beneath a moon, 

that, just 
In crescent, dimly rain'd about the 

leaf 
Twilights of airy silver, till we reach VI 
The limit of the hills ; and as we sank 
From rock to rock upon the glooming 

quay, 
The town was hush VI beneath us : 

lower down 
The bay was oily calm ; the harbor 

buoy, 
Sole star of phosphorescence in the 

calm, 
With one green sparkle ever and anon 
Dipt by itself, and we were glad at 

heart. 



WALKING TO THE MAIL. 

John. I'm glad I walk'd. How fresh 
the meadows look 
Above the river, and, but a month ago, 
The whole hill-side was redder than a 

fox. 
Is yon plantation where this byway 

joins 
The turnpike 7 

James. Yes. 

John. And when does this come by? 
James. The mail ? At one o'clock. 
John. What is it now 1 

James. A quarter to. 
John. Whose house is that I see 1 
No, not the County Member's with 

the vane : 
Up higher with the yew-tree by it, 
and half 



A score of gables. 

James. That ? Sir Edward Head's : 
But he's abroad : the place is to be 

sold. 
John. Oh, his. He was not broken. 
James. No, sir, he, 

Vex'd with a morbid devil in his 

blood 
That veil'd the world with jaundice, 

hid his face 
From all men, and commercing with 

himself, 
He lost the sense that handles daily 

life — 
That keeps us all in order more or 

less — 
And sick of home went overseas for 

change. 
John. And whither 1 
James. Nay, who knows ? he's here 

and there. 
But let him go; his devil goes with 

him, 
As well as with his tenant, Jocky 

Dawes. 
John. What's that? 
James. You saw the man — on Mon- 
day, was it ? — 
There by the humpback'd willow ; 

half stands up 
And bristles; half has fall'n and 

made a bridge ; 
And there he caught the younker 

tickling trout — 
Caught in flagrante — what's the Latin 

word ? — 
Delicto : but his house, for so they 

say, 
Was haunted with a jolly ghost, that 

shook 
The curtains, whined in lobbies, tapt 

at doors, 
And rummaged like a rat : no servant 

stay'd : 
The farmer vext packs up his beds 

and chairs, 
And all his household stuff; and with 

his boy 
Betwixt his knees, his wife upon the 

tilt, 
Sets out, and meets a friend who hails 

him, " What ! 



90 



WALKING TO THE MAIL. 



You're flitting ! " " Yes, we're flit- 
ting," says the ghost 
(For they had pack'd the thing among 

the beds,) 
" Oh well," says he, " you flitting with 

us too — 
Jack, turn the horses' heads and home 

again." 
John. He left his wife behind ; for 

so I heard. 
James. He left her, yes. I met my 

lady once : 
A woman like a butt, and harsh as 

crabs. 
John. Oh yet but I remember, ten 

years back — 
"Tis now at least ten years — and then 

she was — 
You could not light upon a sweeter 

thing : 
A body slight and round, and like a 

pear 
In growing, modest eyes, a hand, a 

foot 
Lessening in perfect cadence, and a 

skin 
As clean and white as privet when it 

flowers. 
James. Ay, ay, the blossom fades, 

and they that loved 
At first like dove and dove were cat 

and dog. 
She was the daughter of a cottager, 
Out of her sphere. What betwixt 

shame and pride, 
New things and old, himself and her, 

she sour'd 
To what she is : a nature never 

kind! 
Like men, like manners : like breeds 

like, they say : 
Kind nature is the best : those man- 
ners next 
That fit us like a nature second-hand ; 
Which are indeed the manners of the 

great. 
John. But I had heard it was this 

bill that past, 
And fear of change at home, that 

drove him hence. 
James. That was the last drop in 

the cup of gall. 



I once was near him, when his bailiff 

brought 
A Chartist pike. You should have 

seen him wince 
As from a venomous thing : he thought 

himself 
A mark for all, and shudder'd, lest a 

cry 
Should break his sleep by night, and 

his nice eyes 
Should see the raw mechanic's bloody 

thumbs 
Sweat on his blazon'd chairs , but, sir, 

you know 
That these two parties still divide the 

world — 
Of those that want, and those that 

have : and still 
The same old sore breaks out from 

age to age 
With much the same result. Now I 

myself, 
A Tory to the quick, was as a boy 
Destructive, when 1 had not what 1 

would. 
I was at school — a college in the 

South : 
There lived a flayflint near ; we stole 

his fruit, 
His hens, his eggs ; but there was law 

for us; 
We paid in person. He had a sow, 

sir. She, 
With meditative grunts of much con- 
tent, 
Lay great with pig, wallowing in sun 

and mud. 
By night we dragg'd her to the col- 
lege tower 
From her warm bed, and up the cork- 
screw stair 
With hand and rope we haled the 

groaning sow, 
And on the leads we kept her till she 

pigg'd. 
Large range of prospect had the 

mother sow, 
And but for daily loss of one she loved 
As one by one we took them — but for 

this — 
As never sow was higher in this 

world — 



EDWIN MORRIS; GR, THE LAKE. 



9L 



Might have been happy : but what lot 

is pure ? 
We took them all, till she was left 

alone 
Upon her tower, the Niobe of swine, 
And so return'd unfarrow'd to her 

sty. 
John. They found you out ? 
James. Not they. 

John. Well — after all — 

What know we of the secret of a 

man ? 
His nerves were wrong. What ails 

us, who are sound, 
That we should mimic this raw fool 

the world, 
Which charts us all in its coarse 

blacks or whites, 
As ruthless as a baby with a worm, 
As cruel as a schoolboy ere he grows 
To Pity — more from ignorance than 

will. 
But put your best foot forward, or 

I fear 
That we shall miss the mail: and here 

it comes 
With five at top : as quaint a four-in- 
hand 
As you shall see — three pyebalds and 

a roan. 



EDWIN MORRIS; 

OR, THE LAKE. 

O me, my pleasant rambles by the lake, 
My sweet, wild, fresh three quarters 

of a year, 
My one Oasis in the dust and drouth 
Of city life ! I was a sketcher then : 
See here, my doing : curves of moun- 
tain, bridge, 
Boat, island, ruins of a castle, built 
When men knew how to build, upon a 

rock 
With turrets lichen-gilded like a rock : 
And here, new-comers in an ancient 

hold, 
New-comers from the Mersey, million- 
aires, 



Here lived the Hills 
nied bulk 



a Tudor-chim- 



Of mellow brickwork on an isle of 

bowers. 
me, my pleasant rambles by the 

lake 
With Edwin Morris and with Edward 

Bull 
The curate ; he was fatter than his 

cure. 

But Edwin Morris, he that knew the 

names, 
Long learned names of agaric, moss 

and fern, 
Who forged a thousand theories of the 

rocks, 
Who taught me how to skate, to row, 

to swim, 
Who read me rhymes elaborately good, 
His own — I call'd him Crichton, for 

he seem'd 
All-perfect, finish'd to the finger nail. 

And once I ask'd him of his early 

life, 
And his first passion ; and he answer'd 

me; 
And well his words became him : was 

he not 
A full-cell'd honeycomb of eloquence 
Stored from all flowers 1 Foet-like he 

spoke. 

" My love for Nature is as old as I ; 
But thirty moons, one honeymoon to 

that, 
And three rich sennights more, my love 

for her. 
My love for Nature and my love for 

her, 
Of different ages, like twin-sisters 

grew, 
Twin-sisters differently beautiful. 
To some full music rose and sank the 

sun, 
And some full music seem'd to move 

and change 
With all the varied changes of the 

dark, 
And either twilight and the day be- 
tween ; 
For daily hope fulfill'd, to rise again 



92 



EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE. 



Revolving toward fulfilment, made it 

sweet 
To walk, to sit, to sleep, to wake, to 

breathe." 

Or this or something like to this he 

spoke. 
Then said the fat-faced curate Edward 

Bull, 
" I take it, God made the woman for 

the man, 
And for the good and increase of the 

world. 
A pretty face is well, and this is well, 
To have a dame indoors, that trims us 

up, 
And keeps us tight ; but these unreal 

ways 
Seem but the theme of writers, and 

indeed 
Worn threadbare. Man is made of 

solid stuff. 
I say, God made the woman for tne 

man, 
And for the good and increase of the 

world." 

" Parson," said I, " you pitch the pipe 

too low : 
But I have sudden touches, and can 

run 
My faith beyond my practice into his : 
Tho' if, in dancing after Letty Hill, 
I do not hear the bells upon my cap, 
I scarce have other music : yet say on. 
What should one give to light on such 

a dream % " 
I ask'd him half-sardonically. 

" Give 1 
Give all thou art," he answer'd, and a 

light 
Of laughter dimpled in his swarthy 

cheek ; 
"I would have hid her needle in my 

heart, 
To save her little finger from a scratch 
No deeper than the skin : my ears 

could hear 
Her lightest breath ; her least remark 

was worth 
The experience of the wise. I went 

and came; 



Her voice fled always thro' the summei 

land; 
I spoke her name alone. Thrice-happy 

days ! 
The flower of each, those moments 

when we met, 
The crown of all, we met to part no 

more." 

Were not his words delicious, I a 
beast 

To take them as I did 1 but something 
jarr'd ; 

Whether he spoke too largely ; that 
there seem'd 

A touch of something false, some self- 
conceit, 

Or over-smoothness : howsoe'er it was, 

He scarcely hit my humor, and I said : 

"Friend Edwin, do not think your- 
self alone 
Of all men happy. Shall not Love to 

me, 
As in the Latin song I learnt at school, 
Sneeze out a full God-bless-you right 

and left ? 
But you can talk : yours is a kindly 

vein : 
I have, I think, — Heaven knows — as 

much within ; 
Have, or should have, but for a 

thought or two, 
That like a purple beech among the 

greens 
Looks out of place : 'tis from no want 

in her : 
It is my shyness, or my self-distrust, 
Or something of a wayward modern 

mind 
Dissecting passion. Time will set me 

right." 

So spoke I knowing not the things 

that were. 
Then said the fat-faced curate, Edward 

Bull : 
" God made the woman for the use of 

man, . 
And for the good and increase of the 

world." 



EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE. 



93 



And I and Edwin laughed ; and now 

we paused 
About the windings of the marge to 

hear 
The soft wind blowing over meadowy 

holms 
And alders, garden-isles ; and now we 

left 
The clerk behind us, I and he, and ran 
By ripply shallows of the lisping lake, 
Delighted with the freshness and the 

sound. 

But, when the bracken rusted on 

their crags, 
My suit had wither'd, nipt to death by 

him 
That was a God, and is a lawyer's clerk, 
The rentroll Cupid of our rainy isles. 
'Tis true, we met ; one hour I had, no 

more : 
She sent a note, the seal an Elk voits 

suit, 
The close, " Your Letty, only yours " ; 

and this 
Thrice underscored. The friendly 

mist of morn 
Clung to the lake. I boated over, ran 
My craft aground, and heard with 

beating heart 
The Sweet-Gale rustle round the shelv- 
ing keel ; 
And out I stept, and up I crept : she 

moved, 
Like Proserpine in Enna, gathering 

flowers : 
Then low and sweet I whistled thrice ; 

and she, 
She turn'd, we closed, we kiss'd, swore 

faith, I breathed 
In some new planet : a silent cousin 

stole 
Upon us and departed : " Leave," she 

cried, 
"O leave me!" "Never, dearest, 

never : here 
I brave the worst : " and while we 

stood like fools 
Embracing, all at once a score of pugs 
And poodles yell'd within, and out 

they came 
Trustees and Aunts and Uncles. 



" What, with him ! 
Go " (shrill'd the cotton-spinning 

chorus) ; "him ! " 
I choked. Again they shriek'd the 

burthen — " Him ! " 
Again with hands of wild rejection 

"Go! — 
Girl, get you in ! " She went — and in 

one month 
They wedded her to sixty thousand 

pounds, 
To lands in Kent and messuages in 

York, 
And slight Sir Robert with his watery 

smile 
And educated whisker. But for me, 
They set an ancient creditor to 

work : 
It seems I broke a close with force 

and arms: 
There came a mystic token from the 

king 
To greet the sheriff, needless courtesy ! 
I read, and fled by night, and flying 

turn'd : 
Her taper glimmer'd in the lake be- 
low: 
I turn'd once more, close-button'd to 

the storm ; 
So left the place, left Edwin, nor have 

seen 
Him since, nor heard of her, nor cared 

to hear. 

Nor cared to hear 1 perhaps : yet 
long ago 

I have pardon'd little Letty; not in- 
deed, 

It may be, for her own dear sake but 
this, 

She seems a part of those fresh days 
to me; 

For in the dust and drouth of Lon- 
don life 

She moves among my visions of the 
lake, 

While the prime swallow dips his 
wing, or then 

While the gold-lily blows, and over- 
head 

The light cloud smoulders on the 
summer crag. 



94 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 

Altho' I be the basest of mankind, 
From scalp to sole one slough and 

crust of sin, 
Unfit for earth, unfit for heaven, 

scarce meet 
For troops of devils, mad with blas- 
phemy, 
I will not cease to grasp the hope I 

hold 
Of saintdom, and to clamor, mourn 

and sob, 
Battering the gates of heaven with 

storms of prayer, 
Have mercy, Lord, and take away my 

sin. 
Let this avail, just, dreadful, mighty 

God, 
This not be all in vain, that thrice ten 

years, 
Thrice multiplied by superhuman 

pangs, 
In hungers and in thirsts, fevers and 

cold, 
In coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous 

throes and cramps, 
A sign betwixt the meadow and the 

cloud, 
Patient on this tall pillar I have*borne 
Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, 

and sleet, and snow ; 
And I had hoped that ere this period 

closed 
Thou wouldst have caught me up into 

thy rest, 
Denying not these weather-beaten 

limbs 
The meed of saints, the white robe 

and the palm. 
O take the meaning, Lord : I do not 

breathe, 
Not whisper, any murmur of com- 
plaint. 
Pain heap'd ten-hundred-fold to this, 

were still 
Less burthen, by ten-hundred-fold, to 

bear, 
Than were those lead-like tons of sin, 

that crush'd 
My spirit flat before thee. 

Lord, Lord, 



Thou knowest I bore this better at 

the first, 
For I was strong and hale of body 

then; 
And tho' my teeth, which now are 

dropt away, 
Would chatter with the cold, and all 

my beard 
"Was tagg'd with icy fringes in the 

moon, 
I drown'd the whoopings of the owl 

with sound 
Of pious hymns and psalms, and 

sometimes saw 
An angel stand and watch me, as I 

sang. 
Now am I feeble grown; my end 

draws nigh; 
I hope my end draws nigh : half deaf 

I am, 
So that I scarce can hear the people 

hum 
About the column's base, and almost 

blind, 
And scarce can recognize the fields I 

know; 
And both my thighs are rotted with 

the dew; 
Yet cease I not to clamor and to 

cry, 
While my stiff spine can hold my 

weary head, 
Till all my limbs drop piecemeal from 

the stone, 
Have mercy, mercy: take away my 

sin. 
O Jesus, if thou wilt not save my 

soul, 
Who may be saved 1 who is it may be 

saved ? 
Who may be made a saint, if I fail 

here ? 
Show me the man hath suffer'd more 

than I. 
For did not all thy martyrs die one 

death ? 
For either they were stoned, or cruci- 
fied, 
Or burn'd in fire, or boiPd in oil, or 

sawn 
In twain beneath the ribs ; but I die 

here 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 



95 



To-day, and whole years long, a life 

of death 
Bear witness, if I could have found a 

way 
(And heedfully I sifted all my 

thought) 
More slowly-painful to subdue this 

home 
Of sin, my flesh, which I despise and 

hate, 
I had not stinted practice, my God. 
For not alone this pillar-punish- 
ment, 
Not this alone I bore: but while I 

lived 
In the white convent down the valley 

there, 
For many weeks about my loins I wore 
The robe that haled the buckets from 

the well, 
Twisted as tight as I could knot the 

noose ; 
And spake not of it to a single soul, 
Until the ulcer, eating thro' my skin, 
Betray'd my secret penance, so that 

all 
My brethren marvell'd greatly. More 

than this 
I bore, whereof, O God, thou knowest 

all. 
Three winters, that my soul might 

grow to thee, 
I lived up there on yonder mountain 

side. 
My right leg chain'd into the crag, I 

lay 
Pent in a roofless close of ragged 

stones ; 
Inswathed sometimes in wandering 

mist, and twice 
Black'd with thy branding thunder, 

and sometimes 
Sucking the damps for drink, and 

eating not, 
Except the spare chance-gift of those 

that :ame 
To touch my body and be heal'd, and 

live: 
And they say then that I work'd mir- 
acles, 
Whereof my fame is loud amongst 

mankind, 



Cured lameness, palsies, cancers. 

Thou, O God, 
Knowest alone whether this was or no. 
Have mercy, mercy ! cover all my sin. 
Then, that I might be more alone 

with thee, 
Three years I lived upon a pillar, 

high 
Six cubits, and three years on one of 

twelve ; 
And twice three years I crouch'd on 

one that rose 
Twenty by measure; last of all, I 

grew 
Twice ten long weary weary years to 

this, 
That numbers forty cubits from the 

soil. 
I think that I have borne as much 

as this — 
Or else I dream — and for so long a 

time, 
If I may measure time by yon slow 

light, 
And this high dial, which my sorrow 

crowns — 
So much — even so. 

And yet I know not well, 
For that the evil ones come here, and 

say, 
"Fall down, Simeon: that hast 

suffer'd long 
For ages and for ages ! " then they 

prate 
Of penances I cannot have gone thro', 
Perplexing me with lies; and oft I 

fall, 
Maybe for months, in such blind 

lethargies 
That Heaven, and Earth, and Time 

are choked. 

But yet 
Bethink thee, Lord, while thou and 

all the saints 
Enjoy themselves in heaven, and men 

on eartli 
House in the shade of comfortable 

roofs, 
Sit with their wives by fires, eat whole- 
some food, 
And wear warm clothes, and even 

beasts have stalls, 



96 



ST. SIMEON S XYLITES. 



I, 'tween the spring and downfall of 

the light, 
Bow down one thousand and two hun- 
dred times, 
To Christ, the Virgin Mother, and the 

saints ; 
Or in the night, after a little sleep, 
I wake : the chill stars sparkle ; I am 

wet 
With drenching dews, or stiff with 

crackling frost. 
I wear an undress'd goatskin on my 

back ; 
A grazing iron collar grinds my 

neck ; 
And in my weak, lean arms I lift the 

cross, 
And strive and wrestle with thee till 

I die : 

mercy, mercy ! wash away my sin. 
O Lord, thou knowest what a man 

I am ; 
A sinful man, conceived and born in 

sin : 
'Tis their own doing ; this is none of 

mine ; 
Lay it not to me. Am I to blame for 

this, 
That here come those that worship 

me? Ha! ha! 
They think that I am somewhat. 

What am I ? 
The silly people take me for a saint, 
And bring me offerings of fruit and 

flowers : 
And I, in truth (thou wilt bear witness 

here) 
Have all in all endured as much, and 

more 
Than many just and holy men, whose 

names 
Are register'd and calendar'd for 

saints. 
Good people, you do ill to kneel to 

me. 
What is it I can have done to merit 

this? 

1 am a sinner viler than you all. 

It may be I have wrought some mira- 
cles, 

And cured some halt and maim'd ; but 
what of that % 



It may be, no one, even among the 

saints, 
May match his pains with mine ; but 

what of that ? 
Yet do not rise ; for you may look on 

me, 
And in your looking you may kneel 

to God. 
Speak ! is there any of you halt or 

maim'd % 
I think you know I have some power 

with Heaven 
From my long penance : let him speak 

his wish. 
Yes, I can heal him. Power goes 

forth from me. 
They say that they are heal'd. Ah, 

hark ! they shout 
" St. Simeon Stylites." Why, if so, 
God reaps a harvest in me. my soul, 
God reaps a harvest in thee. If this be, 
Can I work miracles and not be saved? 
This is not told of any. They were 

saints. 
It cannot be but that I shall be saved ; 
Yea, crown'd a saint. They shout, 

" Behold a saint ! " 
And lower voices saint me from above. 
Courage, St. Simeon ! This dull chrys- 
alis 
Cracks into shining wings, and hope 

ere death 
Spreads more and more and more, that 

God hath now 
Sponged and made blank of crimeful 

record all 
My mortal archives. 

my sons, my sons, 
I, Simeon of the pillar, by surname 
Stylites, among men ; I, Simeon, 
The watcher on the column till the end ; 
I, Simeon, whose brain the sunshine 

bakes ; 
I, whose bald brows in silent hours 

become 
Unnaturally hoar with rime, do now 
From my high nest of penance here 

proclaim 
That Pontius and Iscariot by my side 
Show'd like fair seraphs. On the coals 

Hay, 
A vessel full of sin : all hell beneath 



THE TALKING OAK. 



97 



Made me boil over. Devils pluck'd 

my sleeve, 
Abaddon and Asmodeus caught at me. 
I smote them with the cross; they 

swarm'd again. 
In bed like monstrous apes they 

crush'd my chest : 
They flapp'd my light out as I read : I 

saw 
Their faces grow between me and my 

book; 
With colt-like whinny and with hog- 
gish whine 
They burst my prayer. Yet this way 

was left, 
And by this way I 'scaped them. 

Mortify 
Your flesh, like me, with scourges 

and with thorns ; 
Smite, shrink not, spare not. If it 

may be, fast 
Whole Lents, and pray, I hardly, 

with slow steps, 
With slow, faint steps, and much 

exceeding pain, 
Have scrambled past those pits of fire, 

that still 
Sing in mine ears. But yield not me 

the praise : 
God only through his bounty hath 

thought fit, 
Among the powers and princes of this 

world, 
To make me an example to mankind, 
Which few can reach to. Yet I do 

not say 
But that a time may come — yea, even 

now, 
Now, now, his footsteps smite the 

threshold stairs 
Of life — I say, that time is at the doors 
When you may worship me without 

reproach ; 
For I will leave my relics in your land, 
And you may carve a shrine about 

my dust, 
And burn a fragrant lamp before my 

bones, 
When I am gather'd to the glorious 

saints. 
While I spake then, a sting of 

shrewdest pain 



Ran shrivelling thro' me, and a cloud- 
like change, 
In passing, with a grosser film made 

thick 
These heavy, horny eyes. The end I 

the end ! 
Surely the end ! What's here ? a 

shape, a shade, 
A flash of light. Is that the angel 

there 
That holds a crown 1 Come, blessed 

brother, come. 
I know thy glittering face. I waited 

long ; 
My brows are ready. What ! deny it 

now ? 
Nay, draw, draw, draw nigh. So I 

clutch it. Christ ! 
'Tis gone : 'tis here again ; the crown ! 

the crown ! 
So now 'tis fitted on and grows to me, 
And from it melt the dews of Paradise, 
Sweet! sweet! spikenard, and balm, 

and frankincense. 
Ah ! let me not be fool'd, sweet saints: 

I trust 
That I am whole, and clean, and meet 

for Pleaven. 
Speak, if there be a priest, a man 

of God, 
Among you there, and let him pres- 
ently 
Approach, and lean a ladder on the 

shaft, 
And climbing up into my airy home, 
Deliver me the blessed sacrament ; 
For by the warning of the Holy Ghost, 
I prophesy that I shall die to-night, 
A quarter before twelve. 

But thou, Lord, 
Aid all this foolish people ; let them 

take 
Example, pattern : lead them to thy 

light. 



THE TALKING OAK. 

Once more the gate behind me falls ; 

Once more before my face 
I see the moulder'd Abbey-walls, 

That stand within the chace. 



98 



THE TALKING OAK. 



Beyond the lodge the city lies, 
Beneath its drift of smoke ; 

And ah ! with what delighted eyes 
I turn to yonder oak. 

For when my passion first began, 
Ere that, which in me burn'd, 

The love, that makes me thrice a man, 
Could hope itself return'd ; 

To yonder oak within the field 

I spoke without restraint, 
And with a larger faith appeal'd 

Than Papist unto Saint. 

For oft I talk'd with him apart, 
And told him of my choice, 

Until he plagiarized a heart, 
And answer'd with a voice. 

Tho' what he whisper'd under Heaven 
None else could understand ; 

I found him garrulously given, 
A babbler in the land. 

But since I heard him make reply 

Is many a weary hour ; 
'Twere well to question him, and try 

If yet he keeps the power. 

Hail, hidden to the knees in fern, 
Broad Oak of Sumner-chace, 

Whose topmost branches can discern 
The roofs of Sumner-place ! 

Say thou, whereon I carved her name, 

If ever maid or spouse, 
As fair as my Olivia, came 

To rest beneath thy boughs. — 

" O Walter, I have shelter'd here 

Whatever maiden grace 
The good old Summers, year by year 

Made ripe in Sumner-chace : 

"Old Summers, when the monk was fat, 
And, issuing shorn and sleek, 

Would twist his girdle tight, and pat 
The girls upon the cheek, 

" Ere yet, in scorn of Peter's-pence, 
And number'd bead, and shrift, 



Bluff Harry broke into the spence 
And turn'd the cowls adrift : 

" And I have seen some score of those 
Fresh faces, that would thrive 

When his man-minded offset rose 
To chase the deer at five ; 

"And all that from the town would 
stroll, 

Till that wild wind made work 
In which the gloomy brewer's soul 

Went by me, like a stork : 

" The slight she-slips of loyal blood, 
And others, passing praise, 

Strait-laced, but all-too-full in bud 
For puritanic stays : 

" And I have shadow'd many a group 
Of beauties, that were born 

In teacup-times of hood and hoop, 
Or while the patch was worn ; 

'•And, leg and arm with love-knots gay, 

About me leap'd and laugh'd 
The modish Cupid of the day, 
1 And shriird his tinsel shaft. 

" I swear (and else may insects prick 

Each leaf into a gall) 
This girl, for whom your heart is sick, 

Is three times worth them all ; 

"For those and theirs, by Nature's law, 

Have faded long ago ; 
But in these latter springs I saw 

Your own Olivia blow, 

" From when she gamboll'd on the 
greens 

A baby-germ, to when 
The maiden blossoms of her teens 

Could number five from ten. 

" I swear, by leaf, and wind, and rain, 
(And hear me with thine ears,) 

That, tho' I circle in the grain 
Five hundred rings of years — 

" Yet, since I first could cast a shade, 
Did never creature pass 



THE TALKING OAK. 



99 



So slightly, musically made, 
So light upon the grass : 

" For as to fairies, that will flit 
To make the greensward fresh, 

I hold them exquisitely knit, 
But far too spare of flesh." 

Oh, hide thy knotted knees in fern, 

And overlook the chace ; 
And from thy topmost branch discern 

The roofs of Sumner-place. 

But thou, whereon I carved her name, 
That oft has heard my vows, 

Declare when last Olivia came 
To sport beneath thy boughs. 

" O yesterday, you know, the fair 

Was holden at the town ; 
Her father left his good arm-chair, 

And rode his hunter down. 

" And with him Albert came on his. 

I look'd at him with joy : 
As cowslip unto oxlip is, 

So seems she to the boy, 

" An hour had past — and, sitting 
straight 

Within the low-wheel'd chaise, 
Her mother trundled to the gate 

Behind the dappled grays. 

" But as for her, she stay'd at home, 

And on the roof she went, 
And down the way you use to come, 

She look'd with discontent. 

" She left the novel half-uncut 

Upon the rosewood shelf ; 
She left the new piano shut : 

She could not please herself. 

' Then ran she, gamesome as the colt, 

And livelier than a lark 
She sent her voice thro' all the holt 

Before her, and the park. 

" A light wind chased her on the wing, 
And in the chase grew wild, 

As close as might be would he cling 
About the darling child: 



" But light as any wind that blows 

So fleetly did she stir, 
The flower, she touch'd on, dipt and 
rose, 

And turn'd to look at her. 

" And here she came, and round me 
play'd, 

And sang to me the whole 
Of those three stanzas that you made 

About my l giant bole ; ' 

" And in a fit of frolic mirth 
She strove to span my waist : 

Alas, I was so broad of girth, 
I could not be embraced. 

" I wish'd myself the fair young beech 
That here beside me stands, 

That round me, clasping each in each, 
She might have lock'd her hands. 

"Yet seem'd the pressure thrice as 
sweet 

As woodbine's fragile hold, 
Or when I feel about my feet 

The berried briony fold." 

O muffle round thy knees with fern, 
And shadow Sumner-chace ! 

Long may thy topmost branch discern 
The roofs of Sumner-place ! 

But tell me, did she read the name 

I carved with many vows 
When last with throbbing heart I came 

To rest beneath thy boughs % 

"O yes, she wander'd round and round 
These knotted knees of mine, 

And found, and kiss'd the name she 
found, 
And sweetly murmur'd thine. 

" A teardrop trembled from its source, 
And down my surface crept. 

My sense of touch is something coarse, 
But I believe she wept. 

"Then flush'd her cheek with rosy 
light, 
She glanced across the plain; 



100 



THE TALKING OAK. 



But not a creature was in sight : 
She kiss'd me once again. 

" Her kisses were so close and kind, 
That, trust me on my word, 

Hard wood I am, and wrinkled rind, 
But yet my sap was stirr'd : 

" And even into my inmost ring 

A pleasure I discern' d, 
Like those blind motions of the Spring, 

That show the year is turn'd. 

" Thrice-happy he that may caress 
The ringlet's waving balm — 

The cushions of whose touch may 
press 
The maiden's tender palm. 

" I, rooted here among the groves, 

But languidly adjust 
My vapid vegetable loves 

With anthers and with dust : 

"For ah! my friend, the days were 
brief 
Whereof the poets talk, 
When that, which breathes within the 
leaf, 
Could slip its bark and walk. 

" But could I, as in times foregone, 
From spray, and branch, and stem, 

Have suck'd and gather'd into one 
The life that spreads, in them, 

" She had not found me so remiss ; 

But lightly issuing thro', 
I would have paid her kiss for kiss, 

With usury thereto." 

O flourish high, with leafy towers, 

And overlook the lea, 
Pursue thy loves among the bowers 

But leave thou mine to me. 

flourish, hidden deep in fern, 

Old oak, I love thee well ; 
A thousand thanks for what I learn 

And what remains to tell. 



" 'Tis little more : the day was warm , 
At last, tired out with play, 

She sank her head upon her arm 
And at my feet she lay. 

" Pier eyelids dropp'd their silken 
eaves. 

I breathed upon her eyes 
Thro' all the summer of my leaves 

A welcome mix'd with sighs. 

" I took the swarming sound of life — 
The music from the town — 

The murmurs of the drum and fife 
And lull'd them in my own. 

" Sometimes I let a sunbeam slip, 

To light her shaded eye ; 
A second flutter'd round her lip 

Like a golden butterfly ; 

" A third would glimmer on her neck 
To make the necklace shine; 

Another slid, a sunny fleck, 
From head to ankle fine, 

"Then close and dark my arms I 
spread, 

And shadow'd all her rest — • 
Dropt dews upon her golden head, 

An acorn in her breast. 

" But in a pet she started up, 
And pluck'd it out, and drew 

My little oakling from the cup, 
And flung him in the dew. 

" And yet it was a graceful gift — 

I felt a pang within 
As when I see the woodman lift 

His axe to slay my kin. 

" I shook him down because he was 

The finest on the tree. 
He lies beside thee on the grass. 

O kiss him once for me. 

" kiss him twice and thrice for me, 

That have no lips to kiss, 
For never yet was oak on lea 

Shall grow so fair as this." 



LOVE AND DUTY. 



101 



Step deeper yet in herb and fern, 
Look further thro' the chace, 

Spread upward till thy boughs discern 
The front of Sumner-place. 

This fruit of thine by Love is blest, 

That but a moment lay 
Where fairer fruit of Love may rest 

Some happy future day. 

I kiss it twice, I kiss it thrice, 
The warmth it thence shall win 

To riper life may magnetize 
The baby-oak within. 

But thou, while kingdoms overset, 
Or lapse from hand to hand, 

Thy leaf shall never fail, nor yet 
Thine acorn in the land. 

May never saw dismember thee, 

Nor wielded axe disjoint, 
That art the fairest-spoken tree 

From here to Lizard-point. 

O rock upon thy towery-top 
All throats that gurgle sweet ! 

All starry culmination drop 
Balm-dews to bathe thy feet ! 

All grass of silky feather grow — 
And while he sinks or swells 

The full south-breeze around thee 
blow 
The sound of minster bells. 

The fat earth feed thy branchy root, 
That under deeply strikes ! 

The northern morning o'er thee shoot, 
High up, in silver spikes ! 

Nor ever lightning char thy grain, 

But, rolling as in sleep, 
Low thunders bring the mellow rain, 

That makes thee broad and deep ! 

And hear me swear a solemn oath, 

That only by thy side 
Will I to Olive plight my troth, 

And gain her for my bride. 



my marriage morn may 



And when 
fall, 

She, Dryad-like, shall wear 
Alternate leaf and acorn-ball 

In wreath about her hair. 

And I will work in prose and rhyme, 
And praise thee more in both 

Than bard has honor'd beech or lime, 
Or that Thessalian growth, 

In which the swarthy ringdove sat, 
And mystic sentence spoke ; 

And more than England honors that, 
Thy famous brother-oak, 

Wherein the younger Charles abode 
Till all the paths were dim, 

And far below the Roundhead rode, 
And humm'd a surly hymn. 



LOVE AND DUTY. 

Of love that never found his earthly 

close, 
What sequel *? Streaming eyes and 

breaking hearts q 
Or all the same as if he had not been ? 
Not so. Shall Error in the round 

of time 
Still father Truth ? O shall the brag- 
gart shout 
For some blind glimpse of freedom 

work itself 
Thro' madness, hated by the wise, to 

law 
System and empire *? Sin itself be 

found 
The cloudy porch oft opening on the 

Sun? 
And only he, this wonder, dead, be- 
come 
Mere highway dust ? or year by year 

alone 
Sit brooding in the ruins of a life, 
Nightmare of youth, the spectre of 

himself 1 
If this were thus, if this, indeed, 

were all, 
Better the narrow brain, the stony 

heart, 



102 



LOVE AND DUTY. 



The staring eye glazed o'er with sap- 
less days, 
The long mechanic pacings to and fro, 
The set gray life, and apathetic end. 
But am I not the nobler thro' thy 

love? 
three times less unworthy ! likewise 

thou 
Art more thro' Love, and greater than 

thy years 
The Sun will run his orbit, and the 

Moon 
Her circle. Wait, and Love himself 

will bring 
The drooping flower of knowledge 

changed to fruit 
Of wisdom. Wait: my faith is large 

in Time, 
And that which shapes it to some per- 
fect end. 
Will some one say, Then why not ill 

for good ? 
Why took ye not your pastime \ To 

that man 
My work shall answer, since I knew 

the right 
And did it ; for a man is not as God, 
But then most Godlike being most a 

man. 
— So let me think 'tis well for thee 

and me — 
Ill-fated that I am, what lot is mine 
Whose foresight preaches peace, my 

heart so slow 
To feel it ! For how hard it seem'd to 

me, 
When eyes, love-languid thro' half 

tears would dwell 
One earnest, earnest moment upon 

mine, 
Then not to dare to see ! when thy low 

voice, 
Faltering, would break its syllables, to 

keep 
My own full-tuned, — hold passion in 

a leash, 
And not leap forth and fall about thy 

neck, 
And on thy bosom (deep desired 

relief!) 
Rain out the heavy mist of tears, that 

weigh'd 



Upon my brain, my senses and my soul ! 
For Love himself took part against 

himself 
To warn us off, and Duty loved of 

Love — 
O this world's curse, — beloved but 

hated — came 
Like Death betwixt thy dear embrace 

and mine, 
And crying, " Who is this ? behold 

thy bride," 
She push'd me from thee. 

If the sense is hard 
To alien ears, I did not speak to these — 
No, not to thee, but to thyself in me : 
Hard is my doom and thine : thou 

knowest it all. 
Could Love part thus? was it not 

well to speak, 
To have spoken once 1 It could not 

but be well. 
The slow sweet hours that bring us all 

things good, 
The slow sad hours that bring us all 

things ill, 
And all good things from evil, brought 

the night 
In which we sat together and alone, 
And to the want, that hollow'd all the 

heart, 
Gave utterance by the yearning of an 

eye, 
That burn'd upon its object thro' such 

tears 
As flow but once a life. 

The trance gave way 
To those caresses, when a hundred 

times 
In that last kiss, which never was the 

last, 
Farewell, like endless welcome, lived 

and died. 
Then follow'd counsel, comfort, and 

the words 
That make a man feel strong in speak- 
ing truth ; 
Till now the dark was worn, and over- 
head 
The lights of sunset and of sunrise 

mix'd 
In that brief night ; the summer night 

that paused 



THE GOLDEN YEAR. 



103 



Among her stars to hear us; stars 

that hung 
Love-charm'd to listen : all the wheels 

of Time 
Spun round in station, but the end 

had come. 
O then like those, who clench their 

nerves to rush 
Upon their dissolution, we two rose, 
There — closing like an individual 

life — 
In one blind cry of passion and of 

pain, 
Like bitter accusation ev'n to death, 
Caught up the whole of love and 

utter'd it, 
And bade adieu for ever. 

Live — yet live — 
Shall sharpest pathos blight us, know- 
ing all 
Life needs for life is possible to 

will — 
Live happy; tend thy flowers; be 

tended by 
My blessing ! Should my Shadow 

cross thy thoughts 
Too sadly for their peace, remand it 

thou 
For calmer hours to Memory's dark- 
est hold, 
If not to be forgotten — not at 

once — 
Not all forgotten. Should it cross 

thy dreams, 
O might it come like one that looks 

content, 
With quiet eyes unfaithful to the 

truth, 
And point thee forward to a distant 

light, 
Or seem to lift a burthen from thy 

heart 
And leave thee freer, till thou wake 

refresh'd 
Then when the first low matin-chirp 

hatli grown 
Full quire, and morning driv'n her 

plow of pearl 
Far furrowing into light the mounded 

rack, 
Beyond the fair green field and east- 
ern sea. 



THE GOLDEN YEAK. 

Well, you shall have that song which 

Leonard wrote : 
It was last summer on a tour in Wales : 
Old James was with me : we that day 

had been 
Up Snowdon ; and I wish'd for Leon- 
ard there, 
And found him in Llanberis : then we 

crost 
Between the lakes, and clamber'd half 

way up 
The counter side ; and that same song 

of his 
He told me ; for I banter'd him, and 

swore 
They said he lived shut up within 

himself, 
A tongue-tied Poet in the feverous 

days, 
That, setting the how mwcA- before the 

how, 
Cry, like the daughters of the horse- 
leech, " Give, 
Cram us with all/' but count not me 

the herd ! 
To which "They call me what they 

will," he said : 
" But I was born too late : the fair new 

forms, 
That float about the threshold of an 

age, 
Like truths of Science waiting to be 

caught — 
Catch me who can, and make the 

catcher crown'd — 
Are taken by the forelock. Let it be. 
But if you care indeed to listen, 

hear 
These measured words, my work of 

yestermorn. 
" We sleep and wake and sleep, but 

all things move; 
The Sun flies forward to his brother 

Sun; 
The dark Earth follows wheel'd in her 

ellipse ; 
And human things returning on them- 
selves 
Move onward, leading up the golden 

year. 



104 



UL YSSES. 



" Ah, tho' the times, when some new 

thought can bud, 
Are but as poets' seasons when they 

flower, 
Yet seas, that daily gain upon the 

shore, 
Have ebb and flow conditioning their 

• march, 
And slow and sure comes up the 

golden year. 
"When wealth no more shall rest 

in mounded heaps. 
But smit with freer light shall slowly 

melt 
In many streams to fatten lower lands, 
And light shall spread, and man be 

liker man 
Thro' all the season of the golden 

year. 
" Shall eagles not be eagles 1 wrens 

be wrens 1 
If all the world were falcons, what of 

that? 
The wonder of the eagle were the less, 
But he not less the eagle. Happy days 
Roll onward, leading up the golden 

year. 
"Fly, happy happy sails, and bear 

the Press ; 
Fly happy with the mission of the 

Cross ; 
Knit land to land, and blowing haven- 
ward 
With silks, and fruits, and spices, clear 

of toll, 
Enrich the markets of the golden year. 
" But we grow old. Ah ! when shall 

all men's good 
Be each man's rule, and universal 

Peace 
Lie like a shaft of light across the land, 
And like a lane of beams athwart the 

sea, 
Thro' all the circle of the golden 

year 1 " 
Thus far he flow'd, and ended; 

whereupon 
" Ah, folly ! " in mimic cadence an- 

swer'd James — 
"Ah, folly! for it lies so far away, 
Not in our time, nor in our children's 

time, 



'Tis like the second world to us that 

live ; 
'Twere all as one to fix our hopes on 

Heaven 
As on this vision of the golden year." 
With that he struck his staff against 

*he rocks 
And broke it, — James, — you know 

him, — old, but full 
Of force and choler, and firm upon his 

feet, 
And like an oaken stock in winter 

woods, 
O'erflourish'd with the hoary clematis : 
Then added, all in heat : 

" What stuff is this ! 
Old writers push'd the happy season 

back, — 
The more fools they, — we forward: 

dreamers both : 
You most, that in an age, when .every 

hour 
Must sweat her sixty minutes to the 

death, 
Live on, God love us, as if the seeds- 
man, rapt 
Upon the teeming harvest, should not 

plunge 
His hand into the bag: but well I 

know 
That unto him who works, and feels 

he works, 
This same grand year is ever at the 

doors." 
He spoke ; and, high above, I heard 

them blast 
The steep slate-quarry, and the great 

echo flap 
And buffet round the hills, from bluff 

to bluff. 



ULYSSES. 
It little profits that an idle king, 
By this still hearth, among these bar- 
ren crags, 
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and 

dole 
Unequal laws unto a savage race, 
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and 
know not me. 



UL YSSES. 



105 



I cannot rest from travel : I will drink 
Life to the lees : all times I have en- 
joy 'd 
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both 

with those 
That loved me, and alone ; on shore, 

and when 
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 
Vcxt the dim sea: I am become a name; 
For always roaming with a hungry 

heart 
Much have I seen and known ; cities 

of men 
And manners, climates, councils, gov- 
ernment?, 
Myself not least, but honor'd of them 

all; 
And drunk delight of battle with my 

peers, 
Far on the ringing plains of windy 

Troy. 
I am a part of all that I have met; 
Yet all experience is an arch where- 

thro' 
Gleams that untravell'd world, whose 

margin fades 
For ever and for ever when I move. 
How dull it is to pause, to make an end, 
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in 

use! 
As tho' to breathe were life. Life 

piled on life 
"Were all too little, and of one to me 
Little remains : but every hour is saved 
From that eternal silence, something 

more, 
A bringer of new things ; and vile it 

Ave re 
For some three suns to store and hoard 

myself, 
And this gray spirit yearning in desire 
To follow knowledge like a sinking 

star, 
Beyond the utmost bound of human 

thought. 
This is my son, mine own Telema- 

chus, 
To whom I leave the sceptre and the 

isle — 
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 
This labor, by slow prudence to make 

mild 



A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees 
Subdue them to the useful and the 

good. 
Most blameless is he, centred in the 

' sphere 
Of common duties, decent not to fail 
In offices of tenderness, and pay 
Meet adoration to my household gods, 
When I am gone. He works his work, 

I mine. 
There lies the port ; the vessel puffs 

her sail : 
There gloom the dark broad seas. My 

mariners, 
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, 

and thought with me — 
That ever with a frolic welcome took 
The thunder and the sunshine, and 

opposed 
Free hearts, free foreheads — you -and 

I are old ; 
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil ; 
Death closes all : but something ere 

the end, 
Some work of noble note, may yet be 

done, 
Not unbecoming men that strove with 

Gods. 
The lights begin to twinkle from the 

rocks : 
The long day wanes : the slow moon 

climbs : the deep 
Moans round with many voices. 

Come, my friends, 
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. 
Push off, and sitting well in order 

smite 
The sounding furrows; for my pur- 
pose holds 
To sail beyond the sunset, and the 

baths 
Of all the western stars, until I die. 
It may be that the gulfs will wash us 

down : 
It may be we shall touch the Happy 

Isles, 
And see the great Achilles, whom we 

knew. 
Tho' much is taken, much abides ; and 

tho' 
We are not now that strength which 

in old days 



106 



TITHONUS. 



Moved earth and heaven ; that which 

we are, we are ; 
One equal temper of heroic hearts, 
Made weak by time and fate, but 

strong in will 
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to 

yield. 



TITHONUS. 
The woods decay, the woods decay 

and fall, 
The vapors weep their burthen to the 

ground, 
Man comes and tills the field and lies 

beneath, 
And after many a summer dies the 

swan. 
Me only cruel immortality 
Consumes : I wither slowly in thine 

arms, 
Here at the quiet limit of the world, 
A white-haired shadow roaming like a 

dream 
The ever-silent spaces of the East, 
Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls 

of morn. 

Alas ! for this gray shadow, once a 

man — 
So glorious in his beauty and thy 

choice, 
Who madest him thy chosen, that he 

seem'd 
To his great heart none other than a 

God! 
I ask'd thee, " Give me immortality." 
Then didst thou grant mine asking 

with a smile, 
Like wealthy men who care not how 

they give. 
But thy strong Hours indignant 

work'd their wills, 
And beat me down and marr'd and 

wasted me, 
And tho' they could not end me, left 

me maim'd 
To dwell in presence of immortal 

youth, 
Immortal age beside immortal youth, 
And all I was, in ashes. Can thy 

love, 



Thy beauty, make amends, tho' even 

now, 
Close over us, the silver star, thy 

guide, 
Shines in those tremulous eyes that 

fill with tears 
To hear me ? Let me go : take back 

thy gift : 
Why should a man desire in any way 
To vary from the kindly race of men, 
Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance 
Where all should pause, as is most 

meet for all ? 

A soft air fans the cloud apart ; 

there comes 
A glimpse of that dark world where 

I was born. 
Once more the old mysterious glim- 
mer steals 
From thy pure brows, and from thy 

shoulders pure, 
And bosom beating with a heart re- 

new'd. 
Thy cheek begins to redden thro' the 

gloom, 
Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close 

to mine, 
Ere yet they blind the stars, and the 

wild team 
Which love thee, yearning for thy 

yoke, arise, 
And shake the darkness from their 

loosened manes, 
And beat the twilight into flakes of 

fire. 

Lo ! ever thus thou growest beauti- 
ful 

In silence, then before thine answer 
given 

Departest, and thy tears are on my 
cheek. 

Why wilt thou ever scare me with 

thy tears, 
And make me tremble lest a saying 

learnt, 
In days far-off, on that dark earth, be 

true ? 
"The Gods themselves cannot recall 

their gifts." 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 



107 



Ay me ! ay me ! with what another 

heart 
In days far-off, and with what other 

eyes 
I used to watch — if I be he that 

watch 'd — 
The lucid outline forming round thee ; 

saw 
The dim curls kindle into sunny rings ; 
Changed with thy mystic change, and 

felt my blood 
Glow with the glow that slowly crim- 

son'd all 
Thy presence and thy portals, while I 

lay, 
Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing 

dewy-warm 
With kisses balmier than half-open- 
ing buds 
Of April, and could hear the lips that 

kiss'd 
Whispering I knew not what of wild 

and sweet, 
Like that strange song I heard Apollo 

sing, 
While Ilion like a mist rose into 

towers. 



Yet hold me not for ever in thine 

East : 
How can my nature longer mix with 

thine ? 
Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, 

cold 
Are all thy lights, and cold my 

wrinkled feet 
Upon thy glimmering thresholds, 

when the steam 
Floats up from those dim fields about 

the homes 
Of happy men that have the power 

to die, 
And grassy barrows of the happier 

dead. 
Release me, and restore me to the 

ground ; 
Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my 

grave : 
Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by 

morn; 
I earth in earth forget these empty 

courts, 
And thee returning on thy silver 

wheels. 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 

Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early morn : 
Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle-horno 

'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call, 
Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall ; 

Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts, 
And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. 

Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest, 
Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West. 

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the mellow shade, 
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid. 

Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth sublime 
With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time ; 

When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed ; 
When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed; 



108 LOCKSLEY HALL. 



When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see ; 

Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be. — 

In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast ; 
In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest; 

In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove ; 

In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. 

Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one so young, 
And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance hung. 

And I said, " My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth to me, 
Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee." 

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a color and a light, 
As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night. 

And she turn'd — her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of sighs — 
All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes — 

Saying, "I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me wrong"; 
Saying, " Dost thou love me, cousin ? " weeping, " I have loved thee long. ; ' 

Love took up the glass cf Time, and turn'd it in his glowing hands ; 
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. 

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; 
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight. 

Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring, 
And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the fulness of the Spring. 

Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships, 
And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lip's. 

O my cousin, shallow-hearted ! O my Amy, mine no more ! 
the dreary, dreary moorland ! the barren, barren shore ! 

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung, 
Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue ! 

Is it well to wish thee happy ? — having known me — to decline 
On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine ! 

Yet it shall be : thou shalt lower to his level day by day, 

What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathize with clay. 

As the husband is, the wife is : thou art mated with a clown, 

And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down. 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 109 



He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, 
Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse. 

What is this % his eyes are heavy : think not they are glazed with wine. 
Go to him : it is thy duty : kiss him : take his hand in thine. 

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought : 

Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought. 

He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand — 
Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with my hand ! 

Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's disgrace, 
Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace. 

Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of ytiuth ! 
Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth ! 

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's rule ! 
Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten'd forehead of the fool! 

Well — 'tis well that I should bluster! — Hadst thou less unworthy 

proved — 
Would to God — for I had loved thee more than ever wife was loved. 

Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit 1 
I will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my heart be at the root. 

Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length of years should come 
As the many-winter'd crow that leads the clanging rookery home. 

Where is comfort ? in division of the records of the mind 1 
Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind ? 

I remember one that perish'd : sweetly did she speak and move : 
Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love. 

Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she bore ? 
No — she never loved me truly : love is love for evermore. 

Comfort ? comfort scorn'd of devils ! this is truth the poet sings, 
That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. 

Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof, 
In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof. 

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring at the wall, 
Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall. 

Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken sleep, 
To thy widow'd marriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep. 



110 LOCKSLEY HALL. 



Thou shalt hear the " Never, never," whisper'd by the phantom years, 
And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears ; 

And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain. 
Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow : get thee to thy rest again. 

Nay, but Nature brings thee solace ; for a tender voice will cry. 
'Tis a purer life than thine ; a lip to drain thy trouble dry. 

Baby lips will laugh me down : my latest rival brings thee rest. 
Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's breast. 

O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his due. 
Half is thine and half is his : it will be worthy of the two. 

O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part, 

With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart. 

" They were dangerous guides the feelings — she herself was not 

exempt — 
Truly, she herself had suff er'd " — Perish in thy self-contempt ! 

Overlive it — lower yet — be happy ! wherefore should I care ? 
I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair. 

What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days like these ? 
Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to golden keys. 

Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the markets overflow. 
I have but an angry fancy : what is that which I should do ? 

I had been content to perish, falling on the f oeman's ground, 

When the ranks are rolFd in vapor, and the winds are laid with sound. 

But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honor feels, 
And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's heels. 

Can I but relive in sadness 1 I will turn that earlier page. 
Hide me from thy deep emotion, O thou wondrous Mother-Age ! 

Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife, 
When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life ; 

Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield, 
Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field, 

And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn, 
Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn ; 

And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then, 
Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men : 






LOCKSLEY HALL. Ill 



Men, ray brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new : 
That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do : 

For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, 

Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be ; 

Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails, 
Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales ; 

Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd a ghastly dew 
From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue ; 

Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm, 
With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' the thunder-storm ; 

Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle-flags were f uri'd 
In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. 

There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe, 
And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law. 

So I triumph'd ere my passion sweeping thro' me left me dry, 
Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye; 

Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint : 
Science moves, but slowly slowly, creeping on from point to point : 

Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion creeping nigher, 
Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly-dying fire. 

Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing purpose runs, 

And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns. 

"What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys, 
Tho' the deep heart cf existence beat for ever like a boy's ? 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore, 
And the individual withers, and the world is more and more. 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast, 
Full of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of his rest. 

Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle-horn, 
They to whom my foolish passion were a target for their scorn : 

Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd string % 
I am shamed thro' all my nature to have loved so slight a thing. 

Weakness to be wroth with weakness! woman's pleasure, woman's pain — 
Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shallower brain : 



112 LOCKSLEY HALL. 



Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, matched with mine, 
Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine — 

Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah, for some retreat 
Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began to beat; 

Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil-starr'd ; — 
I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward. 

Or to burst all links of habit — there to wander far away, 
On from island unto island at the gateways of the day. 

Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies, 
Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise. 

Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag, 

Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag ; 

Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree — 
Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea. 

There methinks would be enjoyment more than in this march of mind, 
In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind. 

There the passions cramp'd no longer shall have scope and breathing 

space ; 
I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race. 

Iron jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall dive, and they shall run, 
Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun ; 

Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks, 
Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books — 

Fool, again the dream, the fancy ! but I know my words are wild, 
But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child. 

I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains, 
Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains ! 

Mated with a squalid savage — what to me were sun or clime ? 
I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time — 

I that rather held it better men should perish one by one, 

Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in Ajalon ! 

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range, 
Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change. 

Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day : 
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. 



GODIVA. 



113 



Mother-Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when life begun : 
Kift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the Sun. 

O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set. 
Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my fancy yet. 

Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall ! 
Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall. 

Comes a vapor from the margin, blackening over heath and holt, 
Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt. 

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow ; 
For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go. 



GODIVA. 

I waited for the train at Coventry ; 

I hung with grooms and -porters on the 

bridge, 
To watch the three tall spires ; and there 

I shaped 
The city's ancient legend into this : — 

Not only we, the latest seed of Time, 
New men, that in the flying of a wheel 
Cry down the past, not only we, that 

prate 
Of rights and wrongs, have loved the 

people well, 
And loathed to see them over-tax'd ; 

but she 
Did more, and underwent, and over- 
came, 
The woman of a thousand summers 

back, 
Godiva, wife to that grim Earl, who 

ruled 
In Coventry : for when he laid a tax 
Upon his town, and all the mothers 

brought 
Their children, clamoring, " If we pay, 

we starve ! " 
She sought her lord, and found him, 

where he strode 
About the hall, among his dogs, alone, 
His beard a foot before him, and his 

hair 
A yard behind. She told him of their 

tears, 



And pray'd him, " If they pay this tax, 

they starve." 
Whereat he stared, replying, half- 
amazed, 
" You would not let your little finger 

ache 
For such as these ?" — " But I would 

die," said she. 
He laugh'd, and swore by Peter and by 

Paul: 
Then fillip'd at the diamond in her 

ear; 
" Oh ay, ay, ay, you talk ! " — " Alas ! " 

she said, 
" But prove me what it is I would not 

do." 
And from a heart as rough as Esau's 

hand, 
He answer'd, " Ride you naked thro' 

the town, * 

And I repeal it " ; and nodding, as in 

scorn, 
He parted, with great strides among 

his dogs. 
So left alone, the passions of her 

mind, 
As winds from all the compass shift 

and blow, 
Made war upon each other for an hour, 
Till pity won. She sent a herald forth, 
And bade him cry, with sound of 

trumpet, all 
The hard condition; but that she 

would loose 



114 



THE DAY-DREAM. 



The people : therefore, as they loved 

her well, 
From then till noon no foot should 

pace the street, 
No eye look down, she passing; but 

that all 
Should keep within, door shut, and 

window barr'd. 
Then fled she to her inmost bower, 

and there 
Unclasp'd the wedded eagles of her 

belt, 
The grim Earl's gift ; but ever at a 

breath 
She linger'd, looking like a summer 

moon 
Half-dipt in cloud: anon she shook 

her head, 
And shower'd the rippled ringlets to 

her knee ; 
Unclad herself in haste; adown the 

stair 
Stole on ; and, like a creeping sun- 
beam, slid 
From pillar unto pillar, until she 

reaeh'd 
The gateway ; there she found her 

palfrey trapt 
In purple blazon'd with armorial 

gold. 
Then she rode forth, clothed on with 

chastity : 
The deep air listen'd round her as she 

rode, 
And all the low wind hardly breathed 

for fear. 
The little wide-mouth'd heads upon 

the spout 
Had cunning eyes to see : the barking 

cur 
Made her cheek flame : her palfrey's 

footfall shot 
Like horrors thro' her pulses : the 

blind walls 
Were full of chinks and holes ; and 

overhead 
Fantastic gables, crowding, stared : 

but she 
Not less thro' all bore up, till, last, she 

saw 
The white-flower'd elder-thicket from 

the field 



Gleam thro' the Gothic archway in the 

wall. 
Then she rode back, clothed on with 

chastity : 
And one low churl, compact of thank- 
less earth, 
The fatal byword of all years to come, 
Boring a little auger-hole in fear, 
Peep'd — but his eyes, before they had 

their will, 
Were shrivell'd into darkness in his 

head, 
And dropt before him. So the Powers, 

who wait 
On noble deeds, cancell'd a sense mis- 
used; 
And she, that knew not, pass'd : and 

all at once, 
With twelve great shocks of sound, 

the shameless noon 
Was clash'd and hammer'd from a 

hundred towers, 
One after one: but even then she 

gain'd 
Her bower ; whence reissuing, robed 

and crown'd, 
To meet her lord, she took the tax 

away 
And built herself an everlasting name. 



THE DAY-DREAM. 

PROLOGUE. 

O Lady Flora, let me speak : 

A pleasant hour has passed away 
While, dreaming on your damask 
cheek, 

The dewy sister-eyelids lay. 
As by the lattice you reclined, 

I went thro' many wayward moods 
To see you dreaming — and, behind, 

A summer crisp with shining woods. 
And I too dream'd, until at last 

Across my fancy, brooding warm, 
The reflex of a legend past, 

And loosely settled into form. 
And would you have the thought I 
had, 

And see the vision that I saw, 
Then take the broidery-frame, and add 

A crimson to the quaint Macaw, 



THE DAY-DREAM. 



115 



And I will tell it. Turn your face, 
Nor look with that too-earnest 
eye — 
The rhymes are dazzled from their 
place, 
And order'd words asunder fly. 



THE SLEEPING PALACE. 



The varying year with blade and sheaf 

Clothes and reclothes the happy 
plains, 
Here rests the sap within the leaf, 

Here stays the blood along the veins. 
Faint shadows, vapors lightly curl'd, 

Faint murmurs from the meadows 
come, 
Like hints and echoes of the world 

To spirits folded in the womb. 

ii. 

Soft lustre bathes the range of urns 

On every slanting terrace-lawn. 
The fountain to his place returns 

Deep in the garden lake withdrawn. 
Here droops the banner on the tower, 

On the halLhearths the festal fires, 
The peacock in his laurel bower, 

The parrot in his gilded wires. 



Roof-haunting martins warm their 
eggs: 

In these, in those the life is stay'd. 
The mantles from the golden pegs 

Droop sleepily : no sound is made, 
Not even of a gnat that sings. 

More like a picture seemeth all 
Than those old portraits of old kings, 

That watch the sleepers from the 
wall. 

IV. 

Here sits the Butler with a flask 
Between his knees, half-drain'd ; and 
there 

The wrinkled steward at his task, 
The maid-of -honor blooming fair ; 

The page has caught her hand in his : 
Her lips are sever'd as to speak : 



His own are pouted to a kiss : 
The blush is fix'd upon her cheek. 



Till all the hundred summers pass, 

The beams, that thro' the Oriel shine, 
Make prisms in every carven glass, 

And beaker brimm'd with noble 
wine. 
Each baron at the banquet sleeps, 

Grave faces gather'd in a ring. 
His state the king reposing keeps. 

He must have been a jovial king. 



All round a hedge upshoots, and shows 

At distance like a little wood; 
Thorns, ivies, woodbine, mistletoes, 

And grapes with bunches red as 
blood ; 
All creeping plants, a wall of green 

Close-matted, burr and brake and 
brier, 
And glimpsing over these, just seen, 

High up, the topmost palace spire. 



When will the hundred summers die, 

And thought and time be born again, 
And newer knowledge, drawing nigh, 

Bring truth that sways the soul of 
men? 
Here all things in their place remain, 

As all were order'd, ages since. 
Come, Care and Pleasure, Hope and 
Pain, 

And bring the fated fairy Prince. 



THE SLEEPING BEAUTY, 
i. 

Year after year unto her feet, 

She lying on her couch alone, 
Across the purple coverlet, 

The maiden's jet-black hair lias 
grown, 
On either side her tranced form 

Forth streaming from a braid of 
pearl : 
The slumbrous light is rich and warm, 

And moves not on the rounded curl. 



116 



THE DAY-DREAM. 



The silk star-broider'd coverlid 

Unto her limbs itself doth mould 
Languidly ever ; and, amid 

Her full black ringlets downward 
roll'd, 
Glows forth each softly-shadow'd arm 
With bracelets of the diamond 
bright : 
Her constant beauty doth inform 
Stillness with love, and day with 
light. 



She sleeps : her breathings are not 
heard 

In palace chambers far apart. 
The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd 

That lie upon her charmed heart. 
She sleeps : on either hand upswells 

The gold-fringed pillow lightly 
prest : 
She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells 

A perfect form in perfect rest. 



THE ARRIVAL. 



All precious things, discover'd late, 

To those that seek them issue forth ; 
For love in sequel works with fate, 

And draws the veil from hidden 
worth. 
He travels far from other skies — 

His mantle glitters on the rocks — 
A fairy Prince, with joyful eyes, 

And lighter-footed than the fox. 



The bodies and the bones of those 

That strove in other days to pass, 
Are wither'd in the thorny close, 

Or scatter' d blanching on the grass. 
He gazes on the silent dead : 

" They perish'd in their daring 
deeds/' 
This proverb flashes thro' his head, 

"The many fail: the one succeeds." 



He comes, scarce knowing what he 
seeks: 

He breaks the hedge : he enters 
there : 
The color flies into his cheeks : 

He trusts to light on something fair; 
For all his life the charm did talk 

About his path, and hover near 
With words of promise in his walk, 

And whisper'd voices at his ear. 



More close and close his footsteps 
wind: 
The Magic Music in his heart 
Beats quick and quicker, till he find 

The quiet chamber far apart. 
The spirit flutters like a lark, 

He stoops — to kiss her — on his 
knee. 
"Love, if thy tresses be so dark, 
How dark those hidden eyes must 
be!" 



THE REVIVAL, 
i. 

A touch, a kiss ! the charm was snapt. 

There rose a noise of striking clocks, 
And feet that ran, and doors that clapt, 

And barking dogs, and crowing 
cocks; 
A fuller light illumined all, 

A breeze thro' all the garden swept, 
A sudden hubbub shook the hall, 

And sixty feet the fountain leapt. 



The hedge broke in, the banner blew, 
The butler drank, the steward 
scrawl'd, 
The fire shot up, the martin flew, 
The parrot scream'd, the peacock 
squall'd, 
The maid and page renew'd their strife, 
The palace bang'd, and buzz'd and 
clackt, 
And all the long-pent stream of life 
Dash'd downward in a cataract. 



THE DAY-DREAM. 



117 



in. 

And last with these the king awoke, 

And in his chair himself uprear'd, 
And yawn'd, and rubb'd his face, and 
spoke, 

"By holy rood, a royal beard! 
How say you ? we have slept, my lords. 

My beard has grown into my lap." 
The barons swore, with many words, 

'Twas but an after-dinner's nap. 



" Pardy," return'd the king, " but still 

My joints are somewhat stiff or so. 
My lord, and shall we pass the bill 

I mention'd half an hour ago ? " 
The chancellor, sedate and vain, 

In courteous words return'd reply : 
But dallied with his golden chain, 

And, smiling, put the question by. 



THE DEPARTURE, 
i. 

And on her lover's arm she leant, 

And round her waist she felt it fold, 
And far across the hills they went 

In that new world which is the old : 
Across the hills, and far away 

Beyond this utmost purple rim, 
And deep into the dying day 

The happy princess follow'd him. 



" I'd sleep another hundred years, 

O love, for such another kiss ; " 
" O wake for ever, love," she hears, 

" O love, 'twas such as this and this." 
And o'er them many a sliding star, 

And many a merry wind was borne, 
And, stream'd thro' many a golden bar, 

The twilight melted into morn. 



" eyes long laid in happy sleep ! " 
" O happy sleep, that lightly fled ! " 

" happy kiss, that woke thy sleep ! " 
"O love, thy kiss would wake the 
<}ead ! " 

And o'er them many a flowing range 



Of vapor buoy'd the crescent-bark, 
And, rapt thro' many a rosy change 
The twilight died into the dark. 



" A hundred summers ! can it be 1 

And whither goest thou, tell me 
where 1 " 
" O seek my father's court with me, 

Eor there are greater wonder? 
there." 
And o'er the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim, 
Beyond the night, across the day, 

Thro' all the world she follow'd him, 



MORAL, 
i. 

So, Lady Flora, take my lay, 

And if you find no moral there, 
Go, look in any glass and say, 

What moral is in being fair. 
Oh, tc what uses chall we put 

The wildweed flower that simply 
blows 1 
And is there any moral shut 

Within the bosom of the rose ? 



But any man that walks the mead, 

In bud or blade, or bloom, may find, 
According as his humors lead, 

A meaning suited to his mind. 
And liberal applications lie 

In Art like Nature, dearest friend ; 
So 'twere to cramp its use, if I 

Should hook it to some useful end. 



L'ENVOL 
i. 

You shake your head. A random 
string 

Your finer female sense offends. 
Well — were it not a pleasant thing 

To fall asleep with all one's friends; 
To pass with all our social ties 

To silence from the paths of men ; 
And every hundred years to rise 



1,18 



AMPHION. 



And learn the world, and sleep 
again ; 
To sleep thro' terms of mighty wars, 

And wake on science grown to more, 
On secrets of the brain, the stars, 

As wild as aught of fairy lore ; 
And all that else the years will show, 

The Poet-forms of stronger hours, 
The vast Republics that may grow, 

The Federations and the Powers ; 
Titanic forces taking birth 

In divers seasons, divers climes ; 
For we are Ancients of the earth, 

And in the morning of the times. 



So sleeping, so aroused from sleep 

Thro' sunny decadesnewand strange, 
Or gay quinquenniads would we reap 

The flower and quintessence of 
change. 

in. 
Ah, yet would I — and would I might ! 

So much your eyes my fancy take — 
Be still the first to leap to light 

That I might kiss those eyes awake ! 
For, am I right, or am I wrong, 

To choose your own you did not 
care ; 
You'd have my moral from the song, 

And I will take my pleasure there : 
And, am I right or am I wrong, 

My fancy, ranging thro' and thro', 
To search a meaning for the song, 

Perforce will still revert to you ; 
Nor finds a closer truth than this 

All-graceful head, so richly curl'd, 
And evermore a costly kiss 

The prelude to some brighter world. 



For since the time when Adam first 

Embraced his Eve in happy hour, 
And every bird of Eden burst 

In carol, every bud to flower, 
What eyes, like thine, have waken'd 
hopes, 

What lips, like thine, so sweetly 
join'd ? 
Where on the double rosebud droops 

The fulness of the pensive mind ; 



Which all too dearly self-involved, 

Yet sleeps a dreamless sleep to me ; 
A sleep by kisses undissolved, 

That lets thee neither hear nor see: 
But break it. In the name of wife, 

And in the rights that name may 
give, 
Are clasp'd the moral of thy life, 

And that for which I care to live. 



EPILOGUE. 

So, Lady Flora, take my lay, 

And, if you find a meaning there, 
O whisper to your glass, and say, 

"What wonder, if he thinks me 
fair ? " 
What wonder I was all unwise, 

To shape the song for your delight 
Like long-tail'd birds of Paradise 

That float thro' Heaven, and cannot 
light ? 
Or old-world trains, upheld at court 

By Cupid-boys of blooming hue — 
But take it — earnest wed with sport, 

And either sacred unto you. 



AMPHION. 
My father left a park to me, 

But it is wild and barren, 
A garden too with scarce a tree, 

And waster than a warren : 
Yet say the neighbors when they call. 

It is not bad but good land, 
And in it is the germ of all 

That grows within the woodland. 

O had I lived when song was great 

In days of old Amphion, 
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate, 

Nor cared for seed or scion ! 
And had I lived when song was great. 

And legs of trees were limber, 
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate, 

And fiddled in the timber ! 

'Tis said he had a tuneful tongue, 

Such happy intonation, 
Wherever he sat down and sung 

He left a small plantation ; 



AMPHION. 



119 



Wherever in a lonely grove 
He set up his forlorn pipes, 

The gouty oak began to move, 
And flounder into hornpipes. 

The mountain stirr'd its bushy crown, 

And, as tradition teaches, 
Young ashes pirouetted down 

Coquetting with young beeches ; 
And briony-vine and ivy-wreath 

Kan forward to his rhyming, 
And from the valleys underneath 

Came little copses climbing. 

The linden broke her ranks and rent 

The woodbine wreaths that bind her, 
And down the middle, buzz ! she went 

With all her bees behind her : 
The poplars, in long order due, 

With cypress promenaded, 
The shock-head willows two and two 

By rivers gallopaded. 

Came wet-shod alder from the wave, 

Came yews, a dismal coterie ; 
Each pluck'd his one foot from the 
grave, 

Poussetting with a sloe-tree : 
Old elms came breaking from the vine, 

The vine stream'd out to follow, 
And, sweating rosin, plump'd the pine 

From many a cloudy hollow. 

And wasn't it a sight to see, 

When, ere his song was ended, 
Like some great landslip, tree by tree, 

The country-side descended; 
And shepherds from the mountain- 
eaves 

Look'd down, half-pleased, half- 
frighten'd, 
As dash'd about the drunken leaves 

The random sunshine lighten'd ! 

Oh, nature first was fresh to men, 
And wanton without measure ; 

So youthful and so flexile then, 
You moved her at your pleasure. 

Twang out, my fiddle ! shake the 
twigs ! 



And make her dance attendance ; 

Blow, flute, and stir the stiff-set sprigs, 

And scirrhous roots and tendons 



'Tis vain ! in such a brassy age 

I could not move a thistle ; 
The very sparrows in the hedge 

Scarce answer to my whistle ; 
Or at the most, when three-parts-sick 

With strumming and with scraping, 
A jackass heehaws from the rick, 

The passive oxen gaping. 

But what is that I hear ? a sound 

Like sleepy counsel pleading ; 
O Lord! — 'tis in my neighbor's ground, 

The modern Muses reading. 
They read Botanic Treatises, 

And Works on Gardening thro' 
there, 
And Methods of transplanting trees 

To look as if they grew there. 

The wither'd Misses ! how they prose 

O'er books of travell'd seamen, 
And show you slips of all that grows 

From England to Van Diemen. 
They read in arbors dipt and cut, 

And alleys, faded places, 
By squares of tropic summer shut 

And warm'd in crystal cases. 

But these, tho' fed with careful dirt, 

Are neither green nor sappy ; 
Half-conscious of the garden-squirt, 

The spindlings look unhappy. 
Better to me the meanest weed 

That blows upon its mountain, 
The vilest herb that runs to seed 

Beside its native fountain. 



And I must work thro' months of toil 

And years of cultivation, 
Upon my proper patch of soil 

To grow my own plantation. 
I'll take the showers as they fall, 

I will not vex my bosom : 
Enough if at the end of all 

A little garden blossom. 



120 



ST. AGNES' EVE. 



ST. AGNES' EVE. 
Deep, on the convent-roof the snows 

Are sparkling to the moon : 
My breath to heaven like vapor goes : 

May my soul follow soon ! 
The shadows of the convent-towers 

Slant down the snowy sward, 
Still creeping with the creeping hours 

That lead me to my Lord : 
.Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 

As are the frosty skies, 
Or this first snowdrop of the year 

That in my bosom lies. 

As these white robes are soil'd and 
dark, 

To yonder shining ground ; 
As this pale taper's earthly spark, 

To yonder argent round ; 
So shows my soul before the Lamb, 

My spirit before Thee ; 
So in mine earthly house I am, 

To that I hope to be. 
Break up the heavens, Lord ! and far, 

Thro' all yon starlight keen, 
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, 

In raiment white and clean. 

He lifts me to the golden doors ; 

The flashes come and go ; 
All heaven bursts her starry floors, 

And strows her lights below, 
And deepens on and up ! the gates 

Roll back, and far within 
For me the Heavenly Bridegroom 
waits, 

To make me pure of sin. 
The sabbaths of Eternity, 

One sabbath deep and wide — 
A light upon the shining sea — 

The Bridegroom with his bride ! 



SIE GALAHAD. 

My good blade carves the casques of 
men, 

My tough lance thrusteth sure, 
My strength is as the strength of ten, 

Because my heart is pure. 
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, 

The hard brands shiver on the steel, 



The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and 

fly, 

The horse and rider reel : 
They reel, they roll in clanging lists, 

And when the tide of combat stands, 
Perfume and flowers fall in showers, 

That lightly rain from ladies' hands. 

How sweet are looks that ladies bend 

On whom their favors fall ! 
For them I battle till the end, 

To save from shame and thrall : 
But all my heart is drawn above, 

My knees are bow'd in crypt and 
shrine : 
I never felt the kiss of love, 

Nor maiden's hand in mine. 
More bounteous aspects on me beam, 

Me mightier transports move and 
thrill ; 
So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer 

A virgin heart in work and will. 

When down the stormy crescent goes, 

A light before me swims, 
Between dark stems the forest glows, 

I hear a noise of hymns : 
Then by some secret shrine I ride ; 

I hear a voice but none are there ; 
The stalls are void, the doors are wide, 

The tapers burning fair. 
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, 

The silver vessels sparkle clean, 
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, 

And solemn chants resound between. 

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres 

I find a magic bark ; 
I leap on board : no helmsman steers : 

I float till all is dark. 
A gentle sound, an awful light ! 

Three angels bear the holy Grail : 
With folded feet, in stoles of white, 

On sleeping wings they sail. 
Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God ! 

My spirit beats her mortal bars, 
As down dark tides the glory slides, 

And star-like mingles with the stars. 

When on my goodly charger borne 
Thro' dreaming towns I go, 



EDWARD GRAY. 



121 



The cock crows ere the Christmas 
morn, 

The streets are dumb with snow. 
The tempest crackles on the leads, 

And, ringing, springs from brand 
and mail ; 
But o'er the dark a glory spreads, 

And gilds the driving hail. 
I leave the plain, I climb the height ; 

No branchy thicket shelter yields ; 
But blessed forms in whistling storms 

Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. 

A maiden knight — to me is given 

Such hope, I know not fear ; 
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 

That often meet me here. 
I muse on joy that will not cease, 

Pure spaces clothed in living beams, 
Pure lilies of eternal peace, 

Whose odors haunt my dreams ; 
And, stricken by an angel's hand, 

This mortal armor that I wear, 
This weight and size, this heart and 
eyes, 

Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. 

The clouds are broken in the sky, 

And thro' the mountain-walls 
A rolling organ-harmony 

Swells up, and shakes and falls. 
Then move the trees, the copses nod, 

Wings flutter, voices hover clear : 
" O just and faithful knight of God ! 

Ride on ! the prize is near." 
So pass I hostel, hall, and grange ; 

By bridge and ford, by park and 
pale, 
All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide, 

Until I find the holy Grail. 



EDWARD GRAY. 

Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder 
town 
Met me walking on yonder way, 
"And have you lost your heart 1 ? " 
she said ; 
" And are you married yet, Edward 
Gray 1 " 



Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me : 

Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : 
"Sweet Emma Moreland, love no 
more 
Can touch the heart of Edward 
Gray. 

" Ellen Adair she loved me well, 
Against her father's and mother's 
will: 

To-day I sat for an hour and wept, 
By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill 



" Shy she was, and I thought her cold ; 
Thought her proud, and fled over 
the sea ; 
Fill'd I was with folly and spite, 
When Ellen Adair was dying for 
me. 

" Cruel, cruel the words I said ! 

Cruelly came they back to-day : 
' You're too slight and fickle,' I said, 

'To trouble the heart of Edward 
Gray.' 

" There I put my face in the grass — >- 
Whisper'd, ' Listen to my despair : 

I repent me of all I did : 

Speak a little, Ellen Adair ! ' 

" Then I took a pencil, and wrote 
On the mossy stone, as I lay, 

' Here lies the body of Ellen Adair ; 
And here the heart of Edward 
Gray ! ' 

"Love may come, and love may go, 
And fly, like a bird, from tree to 
tree; 

But I will love no more, no more, 
Till Ellen Adair come back to me 



" Bitterly wept I over the stone : 
Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : 

There lies the body of Ellen Adair ! 
And there the heart of Edward 
Gray ! " 



122 



WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 



WILL WATERPROOFS 
LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 

MADE AT THE COCK. 

plump head-waiter at The Cock, 
To which I most resort, 

How goes the time ? 'Tis five o'clock. 

Go fetch a pint of port : 
But let it not be such as that 

You set before chance-comers, 
But such whose father-grape grew fat 

On Lusitanian summers. 

No vain libation to the Muse, 

But may she still be kind, 
And whisper lovely words, and use 

Her influence on the mind, 
To make me write my random rhymes, 

Ere they be half -forgotten ; 
Nor add and alter, many times, 

Till all be ripe and rotten. 

1 pledge her, and she comes and dips 
Her laurel in the wine, 

And lays it thrice upon my lips, 
These favor'd lips of mine ; 

Until the charm have power to make 
New lifeblood warm the bosom, 

And barren commonplaces break 
In full and kindly blossom. 

I pledge her silent at the board; 

Her gradual fingers steal 
And touch upon the master-chord 

Of all I felt and feel. 
Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans, 

And phantom hopes assemble ; 
And that child's heart within the man's 

Begins to move and tremble. 

Thro' many an hour of summer suns, 

By many pleasant ways, 
Against its fountain upward runs 

The current of my days : 
I kiss the lips I once have kiss'd; 

The gas-light wavers dimmer ; 
And softly, thro' a vinous mist, 

My college friendships glimmer. 

I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, 

Unboding critic-pen, 
Or that eternal want of pence, 



Which vexes public men, 
Who hold their hands to all, and cry 

For that which all deny them — 
Who sweep the crossings, wet or dry, 

And all the world go by them. 

Ah yet, tho' all the world forsake, 

Tho' fortune clip my wings, 
I will not cramp my heart, nor take 

Half-views of men and things. 
Let Whig and Tory stir their blood ; 

There must be stormy weather ; 
But for some true result of good 

All parties work together. 

Let there be thistles, there are grapes ; 

If old things, there are new; 
Ten thousand broken lights and 
shapes, 

Yet glimpses of the true. 
Let raffs be rife in prose and rhyme, 

We lack not rhymes and reasons, 
As on this whirligig of Time 

We circle with the seasons. 

This earth is rich in man and maid ; 

With fair horizons bound : 
This whole wide earth of light and 
shade 

Comes out a perfect round. 
High over roaring Temple-bar, 

And set in Heaven's third story, 
I look at all things as they are, 

But thro' a kind of glory. 



Head-waiter, honor'd by the guest 

Half-mused, or reeling ripe, 
The pint, you brought me, was the best 

That ever came from pipe. 
But tho' the port surpasses praise, 

My nerves have dealt with stiffer. 
Is there some magic in the place 1 

Or do my peptics differ ? 

For since I came to live and learn, 

No pint of white or red 
Had ever half the power to turn 

This wheel within my head, 
Which bears a season'd brain about, 

Unsubject to confusion, 
Tho' soak'd and saturate, out and out 

Thro' every convolution. 



WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 



123 



For I am of a numerous house, 

With many kinsmen gay, 
Where long and largely we carouse 

As who shall say me nay : 
Each month, a birth-day coming on, 

We drink defying trouble, 
Or sometimes two would meet in one, 

And then we drank it double ; 

Whether the vintage, yet unkept, 

Had relish fiery-new, 
Or elbow-deep in sawdust, slept, 

As old as AVaterloo ; 
Or stow'd, when classic Canning died, 

In musty bins and chambers, 
Had cast upon its crusty side 

The gloom of ten Decembers. 

The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is ! 

She answered to my call, 
She changes with that mood or this, 

Is all-in-all to all : 
She lit the spark within my throat, 

To make my blood run quicker, 
Used all her fiery will, and smote 

Her life into the liquor. 

And hence this halo lives about 

The waiter's hands, that reach 
To each his perfect pint of stout, 

His proper chop to each. 
He looks not like the common breed 

That with the napkin dally ; 
I think he came like Ganymede, 

From some delightful valley. 

The Cock was of a larger egg 

Than modern poultry drop, 
Stept forward on a firmer leg, 

And cramm'd a plumper crop ; 
Upon an ampler dunghill trod, 

Crow'd lustier late and early, 
Sipt wine from silver, praising God, 

And raked in golden barley. 

A private life was all his joy, 

Till in a court he saw 
A something-pottle-bodied boy 

That knuckled at the taw : 
He stoop'd and clutch'd him, fair and 
good, 



Flew over roof and casement : 
His brothers of the weather stood 
Stock-still for sheer amazement. 

But he, by farmstead, thorpe and spire, 

And follow'd with acclaims, 
A sign to many a staring shire 

Came crowing over Thames. 
Right down by smoky Paul's they bore, 

Till, where the street grows straiter, 
One fix'd for ever at the door, 

And one became head-waiter. 



But whither would my fancy go ? 

How out of place she makes 
The violet of a legend blow 

Among the chops and steaks ! 
'Tis but a steward of the can, 

One shade more plump than com- 
mon ; 
As just and mere a serving-man 

As any born of woman. 

I ranged too high : what draws me 
down 

Into the common day 1 
Is it the weight of that half-crown, 

Which I shall have to pay 1 
For, something duller than at first, 

Nor wholly comfortable, 
I sit, my empty glass reversed, 

And thrumming on the table : 

Half fearful that, with self at strife, 

I take myself to task ; 
Lest of the fulness of my life 

I leave an empty flask : 
For I had hope, by something rare 

To prove myself a poet : 
But, while I plan and plan, my hair 

Is gray before I know it. 

So fares it since the years began, 

Till they be gather'd up ; 
The truth, that flies the flowing can, 

Will haunt the vacant cup : 
And others' follies teach us not, 

Nor much their wisdom teaches ; 
And most, of sterling worth, is what 

Our own experience preaches. 



124 



LADY CLARE. 



Ah, let the rusty theme alone ! 

We know not what we know. 
But for my pleasant hour, 'tis gone; 

"lis gone, and let it go. 
"Tis gone : a thousand such have slipt 

Away from my embraces, 
And falPn into the dust}' crypt 

Of darken'd forms and faces. 

Go, therefore, thou ! thy betters went 

Long since, and came no more ; 
With peals of genial clamor sent 

From many a tavern-door, 
With twisted quirks and happy hits, 

From misty men of letters ; 
The tavern-hours of mighty wits — 

Thine elders and thy betters. 

Hours, when the Poet's words and 
looks 

Had yet their native glow : 
Nor yet the fear of little books 

Had made him talk for show; 
But, all his vast heart sherris-warm'd, 

He flashed his random speeches, 
Ere days, that deal in ana, swarm'd 

His literary leeches. 

So mix for ever with the past, 

Like all good things on earth ! 
For should I prize thee, couldst thou 
last, 

At half thy real worth 1 
I hold it good, good things should 
pass : 

With time I will not quarrel : 
It is but yonder empty glass 

That makes me maudlin-moral. 



Head-waiter of the chop-house here, 

To which I most resort, 
I too must part : I hold thee dear 

For this good pint of port. 
For this, thou shalt from all things 
suck 

Marrow of mirth and laughter; 
And wheresoe'er thou move, good luck 

Shall fling her old shoe after. 

But thou wilt never move from hence, 

The sphere thy fate allots : 
Thy latter days increased with pence 



Go down among the pots : 
Thou battenest by the greasy gleam 

In haunts of hungry sinners, 
Old boxes, larded with the steam 

Of thirty thousand dinners. 

We fret, we fume, would shift cut 
skins, 

Would quarrel with our lot ; 
Thy care is, under polish'd tins ; 

To serve the hot-and-hot; 
To come and go, and come again. 

Returning like the pewit. 
And watch'd by silent gentlemen, 

That trifle with the cruet. 

Live long, ere from thy topmost head 

The thick-set hazel dies ; 
Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread 

The corners of thine eyes : 
Live long, nor feel in head or chest 

Our changeful equinoxes, 
Till mellow Death, like some late 
guest, 

Shall call thee from the boxes. 

But when he calls, and thou shalt 
cease 
To pace the gritted floor, 
And, laying down an unctuous lease 

Of life, shalt earn no more ; 
No carved cross-bones, the types of 
Death, 
Shall show thee past to Heaven : 
But carved cross-pipes, and, under- 
neath, 
A pint-pot neatly graven. 



LADY CLARE. 

It was the time when lilies blow, 
And clouds are highest up in air, 

Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe 
To give his cousin, Lady Clare. 

I trow they did not part in scorn : 
Lovers long-betroth'd were they : 

They too will wed the morrow morn : 
God's blessing on the day l 



LADY CLARE. 



125 



" He does not love me for my birth, 
Nor for my lands so broad and fair ; 

He loves me for my own true worth, 
And that is well," said Lady Clare. 

In there came old Alice the nurse, 
Said, " Who was this that went from 
thee ? " 

" It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, 
"To-morrow he weds with me." 

" O God be thank'd ! " said Alice the 
nurse, 
" That all comes round so just and 
fair : 
Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, 
And you are not the Lady Clare." 

"Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, 
my nurse ? " 
Said Lady Clare, " that ye speak so 
wild? " 
" As God's above," said Alice the 
nurse, 
" I speak the truth . you are my 
child. 



" The old Earl's daughter died at my 
breast ; 

I speak the truth, as I live by bread ! 
I buried her like my own sweet child, 

And put my child in her stead." 

" Falsely, falsely have ye done, 
mother," she said, " if this be true, 

To keep the best man under the sun 
So many years from his due." 

'■'■ Nay now, my child," said Alice the 
nurse, 
" But keep the secret for your life, 
And all you have will be Lord 
Ronald's, 
When you are man and wife." 

" If I'm a beggar born," she said, 
" I will speak out, for I dare not lie. 

Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold, 
And fling the diamond necklace by." 



"Nay now, my child," said Alice the 
nurse, 

" But keep the secret all ye can." 
She said, " Not so : but I will know 

If there be any faith in man." 

"Nay now, what faith?" said Alice 
the nurse, 
" The man will cleave unto his 
right." 
"And he shall have it," the lady 
replied, 
" Tho' I should die to-night." 

" Yet give one kiss to your mother 
dear! 

Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee." 
" O mother, mother, mother," she said, 

" So strange it seems to me. 

" Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, 
My mother dear, if this be so, 

And lay your hand upon my head, 
And bless me, mother, ere I go." 

She clad herself in a russet gown, 
She was no longer Lady Clare : 

She went by dale, and she went by 
down, 
With a single rose in her air. 

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had 
brought 

Leapt up from where she lay, 
Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, 

And f ollow'd her all the way. 

Down stept Lord Ronald from his 
tower : 
"O Lady Clare, you shame your 
worth ! 
Why come you drest like a village 
maid, 
That are the flower of the earth ? * 

" If I come drest like a village maid, 
I am but as my fortunes are : 

I am a beggar born," she said, 
" And not the Lady Clare." 



126 



THE CAPTAIN 



"Play me no tricks," said Lord Ro- 
nald, 
"For I am yours in word and in 
deed. 
Play me no tricks/' said Lord Ronald, 
" Your riddle is hard to read." 

O and proudly stood she up ! 

Her heart within her did not fail : 
She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes, 

And told him all her nurse's tale. 

He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn : 
He turn'd and kiss'd her where she 
stood : 
" If you are not the heiress born, 
And I," said he, "the next in 
blood — 

" If you are not the heiress born, 
And I," said he, " the lawful heir, 

We two will wed to-morrow morn, 
And you shall still be Lady Clare." 



THE CAPTAIN. 

A LEGEND OP THE NAVY. 

He that only rules by terror 

Doeth grievous wrong. 
Deep as Hell I count his error. 

Let him hear my song. 
Brave the Captain was : the seamen 

Made a gallant crew, 
Gallant sons of English freemen, 

Sailors bold and true. 
But they hated his oppression, 

Stern he was and rash ; 
So for every light transgression 

Doom'd them to the lash. 
Day by day more harsh and cruel 

Seem'd the Captain's mood. 
Secret wrath like smother'd fuel 

Burnt in each man's blood. 
Yet he hoped to purchase glory, 

Hoped to make the name 
Of his vessel great in story, 

Wheresoe'er he came. 
So they past by capes and islands, 

Many a harbor-mouth, 
Sailing under palmy highlands 

Far within the South. 
On a day when they were going 



O'er the lone expanse, 
In the north, her canvas flowing, 

Rose a ship of Prance. 
Then the Captain's color heighten'd, 

Joyful came his speech : 
But a cloudy gladness lighten'd 

In the eyes of each. 
" Chase," he said : the ship flew for 
ward, 

And the wind did blow ; 
Stately, lightly, went she Norward, 

Till she near'd the foe. 
Then they look'd at him they hated, 

Had what they desired : 
Mute with folded arms they waited — 

Not a gun was fired. 
But they heard the foeman's thunder 

Roaring out their doom ; 
All the air was torn in sunder, 

Crashing went the boom, 
Spars were splinter'd, decks were shat- 
ter'd, 

Bullets fell like rain ; 
Over mast and deck were scatter'd 

Blood and brains of men. 
Spars were splinter'd; decks were 
broken : 

Every mother's son — 
Down they dropt — no word was 
spoken — 

Each beside his gun. 
On the decks as they were lying, 

Were their faces grim. 
In their blood, as they lay dying, 

Did they smile on him. 
Those, in whom he had reliance 

Por his noble name, 
With one smile of still defiance 

Sold him unto shame. 
Shame and wrath his heart con- 
founded, 

Pale he~turn'd and red, 
Till himself was deadly wounded 

Falling on the dead. 
Dismal error! fearful slaughter! 

Years have wander'd by, 
Side by side beneath the water 

Crew and Captain lie ; 
There the sunlit ocean tosses 

O'er them mouldering, 
And the lonely seabird crosses 

With one waft of the wing. 



THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. 



127 



THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. 
In her ear he whispers gayly, 

" If my heart by signs can tell, 
Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily, 

And I think thou lov'st me well." 
She replies, in accents fainter, 

" There is none I love like thee." 
He is but a landscape-painter, 

And a village maiden she. 
He to lips, that fondly falter, 

Presses his without reproof : 
Leads her to the village altar, 

And they leave her father's roof. 
" I can make no marriage present : 

Little can I give my wife. 
Love will make our cottage pleasant, 

And I love thee more than life." 
They by parks and lodges going 

See the lordly castles stand : 
Summer woods, about them blowing, 

Made a murmur in the land. 
From deep thought himself he rouses, 

Says to her that loves him well, 
" Let us see these handsome houses 

Where the wealthy nobles dwell." 
So she goes by him attended, 

Hears him lovingly converse, 
Sees whatever fair and splendid 

Lay betwixt his home and hers ; 
Parks with oak and chestnut shady, 

Parks and order' d gardens grent, 
Ancient homes of lord and lady, 

Buili for pleasure and for state. 
All he shows her makes him dearer : 

Evermore she seems to gaze 
On that cottage growing nearer, 

Where they twain will spend their 
days. 
but she will love him truly ! 

He shall have a cheerful home ; 
She will order all things duly, 

When beneath his roof they come. 
Thus her heart rejoices greatly, 

Till a gateway she discerns 
With armorial bearings stately, 

And beneath the gate she turns; 
Sees a mansion more majestic 

Than all those she saw before : 
Many a gallant gay domestic 

Bows before him at the door. 
And they speak in gentle murmur, 

When they answer to his call, 



While he treads with footsteps firmer, 

Leading on from hall to hall. 
And, while now she wonders blindly, 

Nor the meaning can divine, 
Proudly turns he round and kindly, 

" All of this is mine and thine." 
Here he lives in state and bounty, 

Lord of Burleigh, fair and free, 
Not a lord in all the county 

Is so great a lord as he. 
All at once the color flushes 

Her sweet face from brow to chin : 
As it were with shame she blushes, 

And her spirit changed within. 
Then her countenance all over 

Pale again as death did prove : 
But he clasp'd her like a lover, 

And' he cheer'd her soul with love. 
So she strove against her weakness, 

Tho' at times her spirit sank : 
Shaped her heart with woman's meek- 
ness 

To all duties of her rank : 
And a gentle consort made he, 

And her gentle mind was such 
That she grew a noble lady, 

And the people loved her much. 
But a trouble weigh'd upon her, 

And perplex'd her, night and morn, 
With the burthen of an honor 

Unto which she was not born. 
Faint she grew, and ever fainter, 

And she murmur'd, "Oh, that he 
Were once more that landscape- 
painter, 

Which did win my heart from me ! " 
So she droop'd and droop'd before him, 

Fading slowly from his side : 
Three fair children first she bore him, 

Then before her time she died. 
Weeping, weeping late and early, 

Walking up and pacing down, 
Deeply mourn'dthe Lord of Burleigh, 

Burleigh-house by Stamford-town. 
And he came to look upon her, 

And he look'd at her and said, 
" Bring the dress and put it on her, 

That she wore when she was wed.'" 
Then her people, softly treading, 

Bore to earth her body, drest 
In the dress that she was wed in, 

That her spirit might have rest. 



128 



THE VOYAGE. 



THE VOYAGE. 



We left behind the painted buoy- 
That tosses at the harbor-mouth ; 

And madly danced our hearts with joy, 
As fast we fleeted to the South : 

How fresh was every sight and sound 
On open main or winding shore ! 

We knew the merry world was round, 
And we might sail for evermore. 



Warm broke the breeze against the 
brow, 
Dry sang the tackle, sang the sail : 
The Lady's-head upon the prow 
Caught the shrill salt, and sheer'd 
the gale. 
The broad seas swell'd to meet the 
keel, 
And swept behind ; so quick the run, 
We felt the good ship shake and reel, 
We seem'd to sail into the Sun ! 

in. 

How oft we saw the Sun retire, 

And burn the threshold of the night, 
Fall from his Ocean-lane of fire, 

And sleep beneath his pillar'd light ! 
How oft the purple-skirted robe 

Of twilight slowly downward drawn, 
As thro' the slumber of the globe 

Again we dash'd into the dawn ! 



New stars all night above the brim 

Of waters lighten'd into view ; 
They climb'd as quickly, for the rim 

Changed every moment as we flew. 
Ear ran the naked moon across 

The houseless ocean's heaving field, 
Or flying shone, the silver boss 

Of her own halo's dusky shield ; 



The peaky islet shifted shapes, 

High towns on hills were dimly seen, 

We past long lines of Northern capes 
And dewy Northern meadows green. 

We came to warmer waves, and deep 



Across the boundless east we drove, 
Where those long swells of breaker 
sweep 
The nutmeg rocks and isles of clove. 



By peaks that flamed, or, all in shade, 

Gloom'd the low coast and quivering 
brine 
With ashy rains, that spreading made 

Fantastic plume or sable pine ; 
By sands and steaming flats, and floods 

Of mighty mouth, we scudded fast, 
And hills and scarlet-mingled woods 

Glow'd for a moment as we past. 



O hundred shores of happy climes, 
How swiftly stream'd ye by the 
bark! 
At times the whole sea burn'd, at times 
With wakes of fire we tore the dark ; 
At times a carven craft would shoot 
From havens hid in fairy bowers, 
With naked limbs and flowers and 
fruit, 
But we nor paused for fruit nor 
flowers. 

VIII. 

For one fair Vision ever fled 

Down the waste waters day and 
night, 
And still we follow'd where she led, 

In hope to gain upon her flight. 
Her face was evermore unseen, 

And fixt upon the far sea-line ; 
But each man murmur'd, " O my 
Queen, 

I follow till I make thee mine." 



And now we lost her, now she gleam'd 

Like Fancy made of golden air, 
Now nearer to the prow she seem'd 

Like Virtue firm, like Knowledge 
fair, 
Now high on waves that idly burst 

Like Heavenly Hope she crown'd 
the sea, 
And now, the bloodless point reversed, 

She bore the blade of Liberty. 



I 

! 



SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE. 



129 



And only one among us — him 

We pleased not — he was seldom 
pleased : 
He saw not far : his eyes were dim : 

But ours he swore were all diseased. 
" A ship of fools," he shriek'd in spite, 

"A ship of fools," he sneer'd and 
wept. 
And overboard one stormy night 

He cast his body, and on we swept. 



And never sail of ours was furl'd, 

Nor anchor dropt at eve or morn ; 
We lov'd the glories of the world, 

But laws of nature were our scorn. 
For blasts would rise and rave and 
cease, 

But whence were those that drove 
the sail 
Across the whirlwind's heart of peace, 

And to and thro' the counter gale ? 



Again to colder climes we came, 

For still we f ollow'd where she led : 
Now mate is blind and captain lame, 

And half the crew are sick or dead, 
But, blind or lame or sick or sound, 

We follow that which flies before : 
We know the merry world is round, 

And we may sail for evermore. 



SIR LAUNCELOT AND 
QUEEN GUINEVEKE. 

A FRAGMENT. 

LiKe souls that balance joy and pain, 
With tears and smiles from heaven 



The maiden Spring upon the plain 
Came in a sun-lit fall of rain. 

In crystal vapor everywhere 
Blue isles of heaven laugh'd between, 
And far, in forest-deeps unseen, 
The topmost elm-tree gather'd green 

From draughts of balmy air. 



Sometimes the linnet piped his song : 
Sometimes the throstle whistled 

strong : 
Sometimes the sparhawk, wheel'd 

along, 
Hush'd all the groves from fear of 

wrong : 
By grassy capes with fuller sound 
In curves the yellowing river ran, 
And drooping chestnut-buds began 
To spread into the perfect fan, 
Above the teeming ground. 

Then, in the boyhood of the year, 
Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere 
Rode thro' the coverts of the deer, 
With blissful treble ringing clear. 

She seem'd a part of joyous 
Spring : 
A gown of grass-green silk she wore, 
Buckled with golden clasps before ; 
A light-green tuft of plumes she bore 

Closed in a golden ring. 

Now on some twisted ivy-net, 

Now by some tinkling rivulet, 

In mosses mixt with violet 

Her cream-white mule his pastern set : 

And fleeter now she skimm'd the 
plains 
Than she whose elfin prancer springs 
By night to eery warblings, 
When all the glimmering moorland 
rings 

With jingling bridle-reins. 

As she fled fast thro' sun and shade, 
The happy winds upon her play'd, 
Blowing the ringlet from the braid: 
She look'd so lovely, as she sway'd 

The rein with dainty finger-tips, 
A man had given all other bliss, 
And all his wordly worth for this, 
To waste his whole heart in one kiss 

Upon her perfect lips. 



A FAREWELL. 

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, 
Thy tribute wave deliver : 

No more by thee my steps shall be, 
For ever and for ever. 



130 



THE BEGGAR MAID. 



Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, 

A rivulet then a river : 
No where by thee my steps shall be, 

For ever and for ever. 

But here will sigh thine alder tree, 
And here thine aspen shiver; 

And here by thee will hum the bee, 
For ever and for ever. 

A thousand suns will stream on thee, 
A thousand moons will quiver; 

But not by thee my steps shall be, 
For ever and for ever. 



THE BEGGAR MAID. 
Her arms across her breast she laid ; 

She was more fair than words can 

4 say : 
Bare-footed came the beggar maid 

Before the king Cophetua. 
In robe and crown the king stept down, 

To meet and greet her on her way ; 
"It is no wonder," said the lords, 

" She is more beautiful than day." 

As shines the moon in clouded skies, 

She in her poor attire was seen : 
One praised her ankles, one her eyes, 

One her dark hair and lovesome 
mien. 
So sweet a face, such angel grace, 

In all that land had never been : 
Cophetua sware a royal oath : 

"This beggar maid shall be my 
queen ! " 



THE EAGLE. 

FRAGMENT. 

clasps the crag with crooked 
hands ; 
Close to the sun in lonely lands, 
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands. 



He 



The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls 
He watches from his mountain walls, 
And like a thunderbolt he falls. 



Move eastward, happy earth, and leave 
Yon orange sunset waning slow : 

From fringes of the faded eve, 
0, happy planet, eastward go ; 

Till over thy dark shoulder glow 
Thy silver sister-world, and rise 
To glass herself in dewy eyes 

That watch me from the glen below. 

Ah, bear me with thee, smoothly borne, 
Dip forward under starry light, 

And move me to my marriage-morn, 
And round again to happy night. 



Come not, when I am dead, 

To drop thy foolish tears upon my 
grave, 
To trample round my fallen head, 
And vex the unhappy dust thou 
wouldst not save. 
There let the wind sweep and the 
plover cry ; 

But thou, go by. 

Child, if it were thine error or thy 
crime 
I care no longer, being all unblest : 
Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick 
of Time, 
And I desire to rest. 
Pass on, weak heart, and leave me 
where I lie : 
Go by, go by. 



THE LETTERS. 

i. 
Still on the tower stood the vane, 
A black yew gloom'd the stagnant 
air, 
I peer'd athwart the chancel pane 

And saw the altar cold and bare. 
A clog of lead was round my feet, 
A band of pain across my brow ; 
" Cold altar, Heaven and earth shall 
meet 
Before you hear my marriage vow." 



I turn'd and humm'd a bitter song 
That mock'd the wholesome human 
heart, 



I 



THE VISION OF SIN. 



131 



And then we met in wrath and wrong, 
We met, but only meant to part. 

Full cold my greeting was and dry ; 
She faintly smiled, she hardly 
moved ; 

I saw with half-unconscious eye 
She wore the colors T approved. 

in. 

She took the little ivory chest, 

With half a sigh she turn'd the key, 
Then raised her head with lips com- 
prest, 

And gave my letters back to me. 
And gave the trinkets and the rings, 

My gifts, when gifts of mine could 
please ; 
As looks a father on the things 

Of his dead son, I look'd on these. 

IV. 

She told me all her friends had said ; 

I raged against the public liar ; 
She talk'd as if her love were dead, 

But in my words were seeds of fire. 
" No more of love ; your sex is known : 

I never will be twice deceived. 
Henceforth I trust the man alone. 

The woman cannot be believed, 
v. 
" Thro' slander, meanest spawn of 
Hell — 

And women's slander is the worst, 
And you, whom once I lov'd so well, 

Thro' you, my life will be accurst." 
I spoke with heart, and heat and force, 

I shook her breast with vague 
alarms — 
Like torrents from a mountain source 

We rush'd into each other's arms. 

VI. 

We parted : sweetly gleam'd the stars, 

And sweet the vapor-braided blue, 
Low breezes fann'd the belfry bars, 

As homeward by the church I drew. 
The very graves appear'd to smile, 
So fresh they rose in shadow'd 
swells ; 
" Dark porch," I said, " and silent 
aisle, 
There comes a sound of marriage 
bells. 



THE VISION OF SIN. 



I had a vision when the night was late : 
A youth came riding toward a palace- 
gate. 
He rode a horse with wings, that would 

have flown, 
But that his heavy rider kept him 

down. 
And from the palace came a child of 

sin, 
And took him by the curls, and led 

him in, 
Where sat a company with heated 

eyes, 
Expecting when a fountain should 

arise : 
A sleepy light upon their brows and 

lips — 
As when the sun, a crescent of eclipse, 
Dreams over lake and lawn, and isles 

and capes — 
Suffused them, sitting, lying, languid 

shapes, 
By heaps of gourds, and skins of wine, 

and piles of grapes. 



Then methought I heard a mellow 
sound, 

Gathering up from all the lower 
ground ; 

Narrowing in to where they sat assem- 
bled 

Low voluptuous music winding trem- 
bled, 

Wov'n in circles : they that heard it 
sigh'd, 

Panted hand-in-hand with faces pale, 

Swung themselves, and in low tones 
replied ; 

Till the fountain spouted, showering 
wide 

Sleet of diamond-drift and pearly hail ; 

Then the music touch'd the gates and 
died, 

Rose again from where it seem'd to 
fail, 

Storm'd in orbs of song, a growing 
gale; 



132 



THE VISION OF SIN 



Till thronging in and in, to where they 

waited, 
As 'twere a hundred-throated nightin- 
gale, 
The strong tempestuous treble throbb'd 

and palpitated; 
Ran into its giddiest whirl of sound, 
Caught the sparkles, and in circles, 
Purple gauzes, golden hazes, liquid 

mazes, 
Flung the torrent rainbow round : 
Then they started from their places, 
Moved with violence, changed in hue, 
Caught each other with wild grimaces, 
Half-invisible to the view, 
Wheeling with precipitate paces 
To the melody, till they flew, 
Hair, and eyes, and limbs, and faces, 
Twisted hard in fierce embraces, 
Like to Furies, like to Graces, 
Dash'd together in blinding dew : 
Till, kill'd with some luxurious agony, 
The nerve-dissolving melody 
Flutter'd headlong from the sky. 



And then I look'd up toward a moun- 
tain-tract, 

That girt the region with high cliff and 
lawn: 

I saw that every morning, far with- 
drawn 

Beyond the darkness and the cataract, 

God made Himself an awful rose of 
dawn, 

Unheeded : and detaching, fold by fold, 

From those still heights, and, slowly 
drawing near, 

A vapor heavy, hueless, formless, cold, 

Came floating on for many a month 
and year, 

Unheeded : and I thought I would 
have spoken, 

And warn'd that madman ere it grew 
too late : 

But, as in dreams, I could not. Mine 
was broken, 

When that cold vapor touch'd the 
palace gate, 

And link'd again. I saw within my 
head 



A gray and gap-tooth'd man as lean 

as death, 
Who slowly rode across a wither'd 

heath, 
And lighted at a ruin'd inn, and said : 



" Wrinkled ostler, grim and thin ! 

Here is custom come your way ; 
Take my brute, and lead him in, 

Stuff his ribs with mouldy hay. 

" Bitter barmaid, waning fast ! 

See that sheets are on my bed ; 
What ! the floAver of life is past: 

It is long before you wed. 

" Slip-shod waiter, lank and sour, 
At the Dragon on the heath ! 

Let us have a quiet hour, 

Let us hob-and-nob with Death. 

" I am old, but let me drink ; 

Bring me spices, bring me wine ; 
I remember, when I think, 

That my youth was half divine. 

" Wine is good for shrivell'd lips, 
When a blanket wraps the day, 

When the rotten woodland drips, 
And the leaf is stamp'd in clay. 

" Sit thee down, and have no shame, 
Cheek by jowl, and knee by knee : 

What care I for any name ? 
What for order or degree 1 

" Let me screw thee up a peg : 
Let me loose thy tongue with wine 

Callest thou that thing a leg ? 

Which is thinnest 1 thine or mine \ 

c< Thou shalt not be saved by works : 
Thou hast been a sinner too : 

Ruin'd trunks on wither'd forks, 
Empty scarecrows, I and you ! 

" Fill the cup, and fill the can : 
Have a rouse before the morn : 

Every moment dies a man, 
Every moment one is born. 



THE VISION OF SIN. 



133 



"We are men of ruin'd bloody 
Therefore comes it we are wise. 

Fish are we that love the mud, 
Kising to no fancy-flies. 

"Name and fame! to fly sublime 
Thro' the courts, the camps, the 
schools, 

Is to be the ball of Time, 
Bandied by the hands of fools. 

" Friendship ! — to be two in one — 
Let the canting liar pack ! 

Well I know, when I am gone, 
How she mouths behind my back. 

" Virtue ! — to be good and just — 
Every heart, when sifted well, 

Is a clot of warmer dust, 

Mix'd with cunning sparks of hell. 

" ! we two as well can look 
Whited thought and cleanly life 

As the priest, above his book 
Leering at his neighbor's wife. 

" Fill the cup, and fill the can : 

Have a rouse before the morn : 
Every moment dies a man, 
Every moment one is born. 

" Drink, and let the parties rave : 
They are filPd with idle spleen ; 

Rising, falling, like a wave, 

For they know not what they mean 

" He that roars for liberty 

Faster binds a tyrant's power ; 

And the tyrant's cruel glee 
Forces on the freer hour. 

u Fill the can, and fill the cup : 
All the windy ways of men 

Are but dust that rises up, 
And is lightly laid again. 

" Greet her with applausive breath, 
Freedom, gayly doth she tread ; 

In her right a civic wreath, 
In her left a human head. 

u No, I love not what is new ; 
She is of an ancient house : 



And I think we know the hue 
Of that cap upon her brows. 

" Let her go ! her thirst she slakes 
Where the bloody conduit runs, 

Then her sweetest meal she makes 
On the first-born of her sons. 

" Drink to lofty hopes that cool — 
Visions of a perfect State : 

Drink we, last, the public fool, 
Frantic love and frantic hate. 

" Chant me now some wicked stave, 
Till thy drooping courage rise, 

And the glow-worm of the grave 
Glimmer in thy rheumy eyes. 

" Fear not thou to loose thy tongue ; 

Set thy hoary fancies free ; 
What is loathsome to the young 

Savors well to thee and me. 

" Change,' reverting to the years, 
When thy nerves could understand 

What there is in loving tears, 

And the warmth of hand in hand. 

" Tell me tales of thy first love — 
April hopes, the fools of chance ; 

Till the graves begin to move, 
And the dead begin to dance. 

" Fill the can, and fill the cup : 
All the windy ways of men 

Are but dust that rises up, 
And is lightly laid again. 

" Trooping from their mouldy dens 
The chap-fallen circle spreads : 

Welcome, fellow-citizens, 

Hollow hearts and empty heads ! 

"You are bones, and what of that^ 
Every face, however full, 

Padded round with flesh and fat, 
Is but modell'd on a skull. 

" Death is king, and Vivat Rex ! 
Tread a measure on the stones, 
Madam — if I know your sex, 
I From the fashion of your bones. 



134 



THE VISION OF SIN. 



" No, I cannot praise the fire 
In your eye — nor yet your lip: 

All the more do I admire 

Joints of cunning workmanship. 

" Lo ! God's likeness — the ground- 
plan — 
-Neither modell'd, glazed, nor 

framed : 
Buss me, thou rough sketch of man, 
Far too naked to be shamed ! 

" Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance, 
While we keep a little breath ! 

Drink to heavy Ignorance ! 

Hob-and-nob with brother Death ! 

" Thou art mazed, the night is long, 
' And the longer night is near : 
What ! I am not all as wrong 
As a bitter jest is dear. 

" Youthful hopes, by scores, to all, 
When the locks are crisp and curl'd ; 

Unto me my maudlin gall 

And my mockeries of the world. 

" Fill the cup and fill the can : 
Mingle madness, mingle scorn ! 

Dregs of life, and lees of man: 
Yet we will not die forlorn." 



The voice grew faint: there came a 

further change : 
Once more uprosethe mystic mountain- 
range ; 
Below were men and horses pierced 

with worms, 
And slowly quickening into lower 

forms ; 
By shards and scurf of salt, and scum 

of dross, 
Old plash of rains, and refuse patch'd 

with moss. 
Then some one spake : " Behold ! it 

was a crime 
Of sense avenged by sense that wore 

with time." 
Another said : " The crime of sense 

became 



I The crime of malice, and is equal 
blame." 

And one : " He had not wholly 
quench'd his power; 

A little grain of conscience made him 
sour." 

At last I heard a voice upon the slope 

Cry to the summit, "Is there any 
hope « " 

To which an answer peal'd from that 
high land, 

But in a tongue no man could under- 
stand ; 

And on the glimmering limit far with- 
drawn 

God made Himself an awful rose of 
dawn. 



TO 



AFTER BEADING A LIFE AND LETTERS. 

" Cursed be he that moves my bones." 

Shakespeare's Epitaph. 

You might have won the Poet's name, 
If such be worth the winning now, 
And gain'd a laurel for your brow 

Of sounder leaf than I can claim ; 

But you have made the wiser choice, 
A life that moves to gracious ends 
Thro' troops of unrecording friends, 

A deedful life, a silent voice : 

And you have miss'd the irreverent 
doom 
Of those that wear the Poet's crown : 
Hereafter, neither knave nor clown 

Shall hold their orgies at your tomb. 

For now the Poet cannot die, 
Nor leave his music as of old, 
But round him ere he scarce be cold 

Begins the scandal and the cry : 

"Proclaim the faults he would not 
show : 
Break lock and seal : betray the 

trust : 
Keep nothing sacred : tis but just 
The many-headed beast should know." 



i 




" Break, break, break, 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea ! " 

Page 135. 



TO E. Z., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE. 



135 



Ah shameless ! for he did but sing 
A song that pleased us from its 

worth ; 
No public life was his on earth, 

No blazon'd statesman he, nor king. 



He gave the people of his best : 
His worst he kept, his best he gave. 
My Shakespeare's curse on clown 
and knave 

Who will not let his ashes rest ! 



Who make it seem more sweet to be 
The little life of bank and brier, 
The bird that pipes his lone desire 

And dies unheard within his tree, 



Than he that warbles long and loud 
And drops at Glory's temple-gates, 
For whom the carrion vulture waits 

To tear his heart before the crowd ! 



TO E. L. 



ON HIS TRAVELS 
GREECE. 



IN 



Illyrian woodlands, echoing falls 
Of water, sheets of summer glass, 
The long divine Pene'ian pass, 

The vast Akrokeraunian walls, 



Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair, 
With such a pencil, such a pen, 
You shadow forth to distant men, 

I read and felt that I was there : 



And trust me while I turn'd the page, 
And track'd you still on classic 

ground, 
I grew in gladness till I found 

My spirits in the golden age. 

For me the torrent ever pour'd 

And glisten'd — here and there alone 
The broad-limb'd Gods at random 
thrown 

By fountain-urns ; — and Naiads oar'd 



A glimmering shoulder under gloom 
Of cavern pillars ; on the swell 
The silver lily heaved and fell ; 

And many a slope was rich in bloom 

From him that on the mountain lea 
By dancing rivulets fed his flocks 
To him who sat upon the rocks, 

And fluted to the morning sea. 



Break, break, break, 

On thy cold gray stones, Sea ! 
And I would that my tongue could 
utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

O well for the fisherman's boy, 

That he shouts with his sister at 
play! 

O well for tho sailor lad, 

That he sings in his boat on the bay 1 

And the stately ships go on 

To their haven under the hill ; 
But O for the touch of a vanish'd 
hand, 
And the sound of a voice that is 
still ! 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is 
dead 

Will never come back to me. 



THE POET'S SONG. 

The rain had fallen, the Poet arose, 
He pass'd by the town and out of 
the street, 
A light wind blew from the gates of 
the sun, 
And waves of shadow went over the 
wheat, 
And he sat him down in a lonely place, 



136 



THE BROOK. 



And chanted a melody loud and 

sweet, 
That made the wild-swan pause in her 

cloud, 
And the lark drop down at his feet. 

The swallow stopt as he hunted the 
bee, 
The snake slipt under a spray, 
The Avild hawk stood with the down 
on his beak, 
And stared, with his foot on the 
prey, 
And the nightingale thought, "I have 
sung many songs, 
But never a one so gay, 
"For he sings of what the world will be 
When the years have died away." 



THE BROOK. 

Here, by this brook, we parted ; I to 

the East 
And he for Italy — too late — too late : 
One whom the strong sons of the 

world despise ; 
For lucky rhymes to him were scrip 

and share, 
And mellow metres more than cent 

for cent ; 
Nor could he understand how money 

breeds, 
Thought it a dead thing ; yet himself 

could make 
The thing that is not as the thing 

that is. 
had he lived ! In our schoolbooks 

we say, 
Of those that held their heads above 

the crowd, 
They flourish'd then or then ; but life 

in him 
Could scarce be said to flourish, only 

touch'd 
On such a time as goes before the leaf, 
When all the wood stands in a mist 

of green, 
And nothing perfect : yet the brook 

he loved, 
For which, in branding summers of 

Bengal, 



Or ev'n the sweet half-English Neil- 

gherry air 
I panted, seems, as I re-listen to it, 
Prattling the primrose fancies of the 

boy, 
To me that loved him ; for " O brook," 

he says, 
"O babbling brook," says Edmund in 

his rhyme, 
" Whence come you 1 " and the brook, 

why not ? replies. 

I come from haunts of coot and hern. 

I make a sudden sally, 
And sparkle out among the fern, 

To bicker down a valley. 

By thirty hills I hurry down, 
Or slip between the ridges, 

By twenty thorps, a little town, 
And half a hundred bridges. 

Till last by Philip's farm I flow 
To join the brimming river, 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on for ever. 

" Poor lad, he died at Florence, quite 
worn out, 

Travelling to Naples. There is Darn- 
ley bridge, 

It has more ivy ; there the river; and 
there 

Stands Philip's farm where brook and 
river meet. 

I chatter over stony ways, 
In little sharps and trebles, 

I bubble into eddying bays, 
I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret 
By many a field and fallow, 

And many a fairy foreland set 
With willow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
To join the brimming river, 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on for ever. 

"But Philip chatter'd more than 
brook or bird ; 

Old Philip; all about the fields you 
caught 

His weary daylong chirping, like the 
dry 

High-elbow'd grigs that leap in sum- 
mer grass. 



THE BROOK. 



137 



I wind about, and in and out, 
With here a blossom sailing, 

And here and there a lusty trout, 
And here and there a grayling, 

And here and there a foamy flake 

Upon me, as I travel 
"With many a silvery waterbreak 

Above the golden gravel, 

And draw them all along, and flow 
To join the brimming river, 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on for ever. 

" O darling Katie Willows, his one 

child ! 
A maiden of our century, yet most 

meek; 
A daughter of our meadows, yet not 

coarse ; 
Straight, but as lissome as a hazel 

wand; 
Her eyes a bashful azure, and her hair 
In gloss and hue the chestnut, when 

the shell 
Divides threefold to show the fruit 

within. 

" Sweet Katie, once I did her a good 

turn, 
Her and her far-off cousin and be- 
trothed, 
James Willows, of one name and 

heart with her. 
For here I came, twenty years back — 

the week 
Before I parted with poor Edmund , 

crost 
By that old bridge which, half in 

ruins then, 
Still makes a hoary eyebrow for the 

gleam 
Beyond it, where the waters marry — 

crost, 
Whistling a random bar of Bonny 

Doon, 
And push'd at Philip's garden-gate. 

The gate, 
Half-parted from a weak and scolding 

hinge, 
Stuck; and he clamor'd from a case- 
ment, ' Run' 
To Katie somewhere in the walks 

below, 



' Run, Katie ! ' Katie never ran : she 

moved 
To meet me, winding under woodbine 

bowers, 
A little flutter'd, with her eyelids 

down, 
Fresh apple-blossom, blushing for a 

boon. 

"What was itl less of sentiment 
than sense 

Had Katie ; not illiterate ; nor of those 

Who dabbling in the fount of Active 
tears, 

And nursed by mealy-mouth'd philan- 
thropies, 

Divorce the Feeling from her mate 
the Deed. 



" She told me. She and James had 

quarrell'd. Why? 
What cause of quarrel 1 None, she 

said, no cause ; 
James had no cause : but when I prest 

the cause, 
I learnt that James had flickering 

jealousies 
Which anger'd her. Who anger'd 

James 1 I said. 
But Katie snatch'd her eyes at once 

from mine, 
And sketching with her slender pointed 

foot 
Some figure like a wizard pentagram 
On garden gravel, let my query pass 
Unclaim'd, in flushing silence, till I 

ask'd 
If James were coming. 'Coming 

every day,' 
She answer'd, ' ever longing to explain, 
But evermore her father came across 
With some long-winded tale, and broke 

him short; 
And James departed vext with him 

and her.' 
How could I help her 1 ? 'Would I — 

was it wrong ? ' 
(Ciaspt hands and that petitionary 

grace 
Of sweet seventeen subdued me ere 

she spoke) 



138 



THE BROOK. 



'O would I take her father for one 

hour, 
For one half-hour, and let him talk to 

me!' 
And even while she spoke, I saw where 

James 
Made toward us, like a wader in the 

surf, 
Beyond the brook, waist-deep in 

meadow-sweet. 

" Katie, what I suffer'd for your 

sake ! 
For in I went, and call'd old Philip out 
To show the farm: full willingly he 

rose: 
He led me thro' the short sweet- 
smelling lanes 
Of his wheat-suburb, babbling as he 

went. 
He praised his land, his horses, his 

machines ; 
He praised his ploughs, his cows, his 

hogs, his dogs ; 
He praised his hens, his geese, his 

guinea-hens ; 
His pigeons, who in session on their 

roofs 
Approved him, bowing at their own 

deserts : 
Then from the plaintive mother's teat 

he took 
Her blind and shuddering puppies, 

naming each, 
And naming those, his friends, for 

whom they were : 
Then crost the common into Darnley 

chase 
To show Sir Arthur's deer. In copse 

and fern 
Twinkled the innumerable ear and tail. 
Then, seated on a serpent-rooted beech, 
He pointed out a pasturing colt, and 

said : 
' That was the four-year-old I sold the 

Squire.' 
And there he told a long long-winded 

tale 
Of how the Squire had seen the colt 

at grass, 
And how it was the thing his daughter 

wieh'd, 



And how he sent the bailiff to the 

farm 
To learn the price, and what the price 

he ask'd, 
And how the bailiff swore that he was 

mad, 
But he stood firm ; and so the matter 

hung; 
He gave them line : and five days after 

that 
He met the bailiff at the Golden Fleece, 
Who then and there had offer'd some- 
thing more, 
But he stood firm ; and so the matter 

hung; 
He knew the man ; the colt would fetch 

its price ; 
He gave them line : and how by chance 

at last 
(It might be May or April, he forgot, 
The last of April or the first of May) 
He found the bailiff riding by the 

farm, 
And, talking from the point, he drew 

him in, 
And there he mellow'd all his heart 

with ale, 
Until they closed a bargain, hand in 

hand. 

" Then, while I breathed in sight of 

haven, he, 
Poor fellow, could he help it ? recom 

menced, 

And ran thro' all the coltish chronicle, 
Wild Will, Black Bess, Tantivy, 

Tallyho, 
Beform, White Rose, Bellerophon, the 

Jilt, 
Arbaces, and Phenomenon, and the 

rest, 
Till, not to die a listener, I arose, 
And with me Philip, talking still ; and 

so 
We turn'd our foreheads from the fall- 
ing sun, 
And following our own shadows thrice 

as long 
As when they f ollow'd us from Philip's 

door, 
Arrived, and found the sun of sweet 

content 



THE BROOK. 



139 



Re-risen in Katie's eyes, and all things 
well. 

I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 

I slide by bazel covers; 
I move the sweet forget-me-nots 

That grow for happy lovers. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 
Among my skimming swallows; 

I make the netted sunbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows. 

I murmur under moon and stars 

In brambly wildernesses; 
I linger by my shingly bars ; 

1 loiter round my cresses; 

And out again I curve and flow 
To join the brimming river, 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on for ever. 



Yes, men may come and go ; and these 

are gone, 
All gone. My dearest brother, Ed- 
mund, sleeps, 
Not by the well-known stream and 

rustic spire, 
But unfamiliar Arno, and the dome 
Of Brunelleschi ; sleeps in peace : and 

he, 
Poor Philip, of all his lavish waste of 

words 
Remains the lean P. TV. on his tomb : 
I scraped the lichen from it : Katie 

walks 
By the long wash of Australasian seas 
Far off, and holds her head to other 

stars, 
And breathes in converse seasons. All 

are gone." 

So Lawrence Aylmer, seated on a 

stile 
In the long hedge, and rolling in his 

mind 
Old waifs of rhyme, and bowing o'er 

the brook 
A tonsured head in middle age forlorn, 
Mused, and was mute. On a sudden 

a low breath 
Of tender air made tremble in the 

hedge 



The fragile bindweed-bells and briony 

rings ; 
And he look'd up. There stood a 

maiden near, 
Waiting to pass. In much amaze he 

stared 
On eyes a bashful azure, and on hair 
In gloss and hue the chestnut, when 

the shell 
Divides threefold to show the fruit 

within : 
Then, wondering, ask'd her " Are you 

from the farm 1 " 
" Yes," answer'd she. " Pray stay a 

little: pardon me; 
What do they call you 1 " " Katie." 

" That were strange. 
What surname ? " " Willows." "No ! " 

" That is my name." 
" Indeed ! " and here he look'd so self- 

perplext, 
That Katie laugh'd, and laughing 

blush'd, till he 
Laugh'd also, but as one before he 

wakes, 
Who feels a glimmering strangeness 

in his dream. 
Then looking at her ; " Too happy, 

fresh and fair, 
Too fresh and fair in our sad world's 

best bloom, 
To be the ghost of one who bore your 

name 
About these meadows, twenty years 

ago." 

" Have you not heard 1 " said Katie, 
" we came back. 

We bought the farm we tenanted be- 
fore. 

Am I so like her 1 ? so they said on 
board. 

Sir, if you knew her in her English 
days, 

My mother, as it seems you did, the 
days 

That most she loves to talk of, come 
with me. 

My brother James is in the harvest- 
field : 

But she — you will be welcome — O, 
come in ! " 



140 



AYLMER' S FIELD. 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 

1793. 

Dust are our frames ; and, gilded dust, 
our pride 

Looks only for a moment whole and 
sound ; 

Like that long-buried body of the king, 

Found lying with his urns and orna- 
ments, 

Which at a touch of light, an air of 
heaven, 

Slipt into ashes, and was found no 
more. 

Here is a story which in rougher 

shape 
Came from a grizzled cripple, whom 

I saw 
Sunning himself in a waste field 

alone — 
Old, and a mine of memories — who 

had served, 
Long since, a bygone Rector of the 

place, 
And been himself a part of what he 

told. 

Sir Aylmer Atlmer, that al- 
mighty man, 
The county God — in whose capacious 

hall, 
Hung with a hundred shields, the 

family tree 
Sprang from the midriff of a prostrate 

king — 
Whose blazing wyvern weathercock'd 

the spire, 
Stood from his walls and wing'd his 

entry-gates 
And swang besides on many a windy 

sign — 
Whose eyes from under a pyramidal 

head 
Saw from his windows nothing save 

his own — 
What lovelier of his own had he than 

her, 
His only child, his Edith, whom he 

loved 
As heiress and not heir regretfully % 
But " he that marries her marries her 

name " 



This fiat somewhat soothed himself 

and wife, 
His wife a faded beauty of the 

Baths, 
Insipid as the Queen upon a card ; 
Her all of thought and bearing hardly 

more 
Than his own shadow in a sickly sun. 

A land of hops and poppy-mingled 

corn, 
Little about it stirring save a brook ! 
A sleepy land, where under the same 

wheel 
The same old rut would deepen year 

by year ; 
Where almost all the village had one 

name; 
Where Aylmer followed Aylmer at 

the Hall 
And Averill Averill at the Rectory 
Thrice over; so that Rectory and 

Hall, 
Bound in an immemorial intimacy, 
Were open to each other ; tho' to 

dream 
That Love could bind them closer well 

had made 
The hoar hair of the Baronet bristle 

up 
With horror, worse than had he heard 

his priest 
Preach an inverted scripture, sons of 

men 
Daughters of God ; so sleepy was the 

land. 

And might not Averill, had he will'd 
it so, 

Somewhere beneath his own low range 
of roofs, 

Have also set his many-shielded tree? 

There was an Aylmer-Averill mar- 
riage once. 

When the red rose was redder than 
itself, 

And York's white rose as red as Lan- 
caster's, 

With wounded peace which each had 
prick'd to death. 

" Not proven " Averill said, or laugh- 
ingly 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



141 



" Some other race of Averills" — prov'n 

or no, 
What cared he % what, if other or the 

same % 
He lean'd not on his fathers but him- 
self. 
But Leolin, his brother, living oft 
With Averill, and a year or two before 
Call'd to the bar, but ever call'd away 
By one low voice to one dear neigh- 
borhood, 
Would often, in his walks with Edith, 

claim 
A distant kinship to the gracious blood 
That shook the heart of Edith hearing 
him. 

Sanguine he was : a but less vivid hue 

Than of that islet in the chestnut- 
bloom 

Flamed in his cheek ; and eager eyes, 
that still 

Took joyful note of all things joyful, 
beam'd, 

Beneath a manelike mass of rolling 
gold, 

Their best and brightest, when they 
dwelt on hers, 

Edith, whose pensive beauty, perfect 
else, 

But subject to the season or the mood, 

Shone like a mystic star between the 
less 

And greater glory varying to and fro, 

We know not wherefore ; bounteously 
made, 

And yet so finely, that a troublous 
touch 

Thinn'd, or would seem to thin her in 
a day, 

A joyous to dilate, as toward the light. 

And these had been together from the 
first. 

Leolin's first nurse was, five years 
after, hers : 

So much the boy foreran : but when 
his date 

Doubled her own, for want of play- 
mates, he 

(Since Averill was a decade and a half 

His elder, and their parents under- 
ground) 



Had tost his ball and flown his kite, 
and roll'd 

His hoop to pleasure Edith, with her 
dipt 

Against the rush of the air in the 
prone swing, 

Made blossom-ball or daisy-chain, ar- 
ranged 

Her garden, sow'd her name and kept 
it green 

In living letters, told her fairy-tales, 

Show'd her the fairy footings on the 
grass, 

The little dells of cowslip, fairy palms, 

The petty marestail forest, fairy 
pines, 

Or from the tiny pitted target blew 

What look'd a flight of fairy arrows 
aim'd 

All at one mark, all hitting: make- 
believes 

For Edith and himself: or else he 
forged, 

But that was later, boyish histories 

Of battle, bold adventure, dungeon, 
wreck, 

Flights, terrors, sudden rescues, and 
true love 

Crown'd after trial ; sketches rude and 
faint, 

But where a passion yet unborn per- 
haps 

Lay hidden as the music of the moon 

Sleeps in the plain eggs of the nightin- 
gale. 

And thus together, save for college- 
times 

Or Temple-eaten terms, a couple, fair 

As ever painter painted, poet sang, 

Or Heaven in lavish beunty moulded, 
grew. 

And more and more, the maiden 
woman-grown, 

He wasted hours with Averill ; there, 
when first 

The tented winter-field was broken up 

Into that phalanx of the summer 
spears 

That soon should wear the garland; 
there again 

When burr and bine were gather'd; 
lastly there 



142 



AYLMEFS FIELD. 



At Christmas ; ever welcome at the 
Hall, 

On whose dull sameness his full tide 
of youth 

Broke with a phosphorescence charm- 
ing even 

My lady ; and the Baronet yet had 
laid 

No bar between them : dull and self- 
involved, 

Tall and erect, but bending from his 
height 

With half -allowing smiles for all the 
world, 

And mighty courteous in the main — 
his pride 

Lay deeper than to wear it as his 
ring — 

He, like an Aylmer in his Aylmerism, 

Would care no more for Leoiin's walk- 
ing with her 

Than f or liis old Newfoundland's, when 
they ran 

To loose him at the stables, for he 
rose 

Two footed at the limit of his chain, 

Roaring to make a third : and how 
should Love, 

Whom the cross-lightnings of four 
chance-met eyes 

Flash into fiery life from nothing, 
follow 

Such dear familiarities of dawn 1 

Seldom, but when he does, Master of 
all. 

So these young hearts not knowing 

that they loved, 
Not she at least, nor conscious of a 

bar 
Between them, nor by plight or broken 

ring 
Bound, but an immemorial intimacy, 
Wander'd at will, and oft accompanied 
By Averill : his, a brother's love, that 

hung 
With wings of brooding shelter o'er 

her peace, 
Might have been other, save for 

Leolin's — 
Who knows 1 but so they wander'd, 

hour by hour 



Gather'd the blossom that rebloom'd, 

and drank 
The magic cup that filled itself anew. 

A whisper half reveal'd her to her- 
self. 
For out beyond her lodges, where the 

brook 
Vocal, with here and there a silence, 

ran 
By sallowy rims, arose the laborers' 

homes, 
A frequent haunt of Edith, on low 

knolls 
That dimpling died into each other, 

huts 
At random scatter'd, each a nest in 

bloom. 
Her art, her hand, her counsel all had 

wrought 
About them : here was one that, sum- 

mer-blanch'd, 
Was parcel-bearded with the trav- 
eller's joy 
In Autumn, parcel ivy-clad ; and here 
The warm-blue breathings of a hidden 

hearth 
Broke from a bower of vine and 

honeysuckle : 
One look'd all rosetree, and another 

wore 
A close-set robe of jasmine sown 

with stars : 
This had a rosy sea of gillyflowers 
About it ; this, a milky-way on earth, 
Like visions in the Northern dreamer's 

heavens, 
A lily-avenue climbing to the doors ; 
One, almost to the martin-haunted 

eaves 
A summer burial deep in hollyhocks ; 
Each, its own charm ; and Edith's 

everywhere ; 
And Edith ever visitant with him, 
He but less loved than Edith, of her 

poor: 
For she — so lowly-lovely and so 

loving, 
Queenly responsive when the loyal 

hand 
Rose from the clay it work'd in as she 

past, 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



143 



Not sowing hedgerow texts and pass- 
ing by, 

Nor dealing goodly counsel from a 
height 

That makes the lowest hate it, but a 
voice 

Of comfort and an open hand of help, 

A splendid presence nattering the 
poor roofs 

Revered as theirs, but kindlier than 
themselves 

To ailing wife or wailing infancy 

Or old bedridden palsy, — was adored ; 

He, loved for her and for himself. 
A grasp 

Having the warmth and muscle of 
the heart, 

A childly way with children, and a 
laugh 

Ringing like proven golden coinage 
true, 

Were no false passport to that easy 
realm, 

Where once with Leolin at her side 
the girl, 

Nursing a child, and turning to the 
warmth 

The tender pink five-beaded baby- 
soles, 

Heard the good mother softly whis- 
per " Bless, 

God bless 'em : marriages are made 
in Heaven." 

A flash of semi-jealousy clear'd it 
to her. 

My lady's Indian kinsman unan- 
nounced 

With half a score of swarthy faces 
came. 

His own, tho' keen and bold and sol- 
dierly, 

Sear'd by the close ecliptic, was not 
fair ; 

Fairer his talk, a tongue that ruled 
the hour, 

Tho' seeming boastful : so when first 
he dash'd 

Into the chronicle of a deedful day, 

Sir Aylmer half forgot his lazy smile 

Of patron " Good ! my lady's kins- 
man ! good ! " 



My lady with her fingers interlock'd, 
And rotatory thumbs on silken knees, 
Call'd all her vital spirits into each ear 
To listen : unawares they flitted off, 
Busying themselves about the flow- 

erage 
That stood from out a stiff brocade 

in which, 
The meteor of a splendid season, she, 
Once with this kinsman, ah so long ago, 
Stept thro' the stately minuet of those 

days : 
But Edith's eager fancy hurried with 

him 
Snatch'd thro' the perilous passes of 

his life : 
Till Leolin ever watchful of her eye, 
Hated him with a momentary hate. 
Wife-hunting, as the rumor ran, was 

he: 
I know not, for he spoke not, only 

shower 'd 
His oriental gifts on everyone 
And most on Edith : like a storm he 

came, 
And shook the house, and like a 

storm he went. 

Among the gifts he left her (possibly 
He fiow'd and ebb'd uncertain, to 

return 
When others had been tested) there 

was one, 
A dagger, in rich sheath with jewels 

on it 
Sprinkled about in gold that branch'd 

itself 
Fine as ice-ferns on January panes 
Made by a breath. I know not 

whence at first, 
Nor of what race, the work ; but as he 

told 
The story, storming a hill-fort of 

thieves 
He got it ; for their captain after fight, 
His comrades having fought their 

last below, 
Was climbing up the valley ; at whom 

he shot : 
Down from the beetling crag to which 

he clung 
Tumbled the tawny rascal at his feet^ 



144 



AYLMER' S FIELD. 



This dagger with him, which when 

now admired 
By Edith whom his pleasure was to 

please, 
At once the costly Sahib yielded to 

her. 



And Leolin, coming after he was 

gone, 
Tost over all her presents petulantly : 
And when she show'd the wealthy 

scabbard, saying 
" Look what a lovely piece of work- 
manship ! " 
Slight was his anwser " Well — I care 

not for it " : 
Then playing with the blade he 

prick' d his hand, 
" A gracious gift to give a lady, this ! " 
" But would it be more gracious " 

ask'd the girl 
" Were I to give this gift of his to one 
That is no lady ? " " Gracious ? No " 

said he. 
" Me ? — but I cared not for it. O 

pardon me, 
I seem to be ungraciousness itself." 
" Take it " she added sweetly, " tho' 

his gift ; 
For I am more ungracious ev'n than 

you, 
I care not for it either " ; and he said 
" Why then I love it " : but Sir Aylmer 

past, 
And neither loved nor liked the thing 

he heard. 

The next day came a neighbor. 

Blues and reds 
They talk'd of : blues were sure of it, 

he thought : 
Then of the latest fox — where started 

— kill'd 
In such a bottom: "Peter had the 

brush, 
My Peter, first " : and did Sir Aylmer 

know 
That great pock-pitten fellow had 

been caught ? 
Then made his pleasure echo, hand to 

hand, 



And rolling as it were the substance 

of it 
Between his palms a moment up and 

down — 
" The birds were warm, the birds were 

warm upon him ; 
We have him now " • and had Sir 

Aylmer heard — 
Nay, but he must — the land was 

ringing of it — 
This blacksmith border-marriage — 

one they knew — 
Raw from the nursery — who could 

trust a child 1 
That cursed France with her egalities ! 
And did Sir Aylmer (deferentially 
With nearing chair and lower'd ac- 
cent) think — 
For people talk'd — that it was wholly 

wise 
To let that handsome fellow Averill 

walk 
So freely with his daughter ? people 

talk'd — 
The ~boy might get a notion into 

him; 
The girl might be entangled ere she 

knew. 
Sir Aylmer Aylmer slowly stiffening 

spoke : 
" The girl and boy, Sir, know their 

differences ! " 
" Good," said his friend, " but watch ! " 

and he, " Enough, 
More than enough, Sir ! I can guard 

my own." 
They parted, and Sir Aylmer Aylmer 

watch'd. 

Pale, for on her the thunders of the 

house 
Had fallen first, was Edith that same 

night; 
Pale as the Jephtha's daughter, a 

rough piece 
Of early rigid color, under which 
Withdrawing by the counter door to 

that 
Which Leolin open'd, she cast back 

upon him 
A piteous glance, and vanish'd. He, 

as one 



I 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



145 



Caught in a burst of unexpected 
storm, 

And pelted with outrageous epi- 
thets, 

Turning beheld the Powers of the 
House 

On either side the hearth, indignant ; 
her, 

Cooling her false cheek with a feather- 
fan, 

Him, glaring, by his own stale devil 
spurr'd, 

And, like a beast hard-ridden, breath- 
ing hard. 

" Ungenerous, dishonorable, base, 

Presumptuous ! trusted as he was with 
her, 

The sole succeeder to their wealth, 
their lands, 

The last remaining pillar of their 
house, 

The one transmitter of their ancient 
name, 

Their child." "Our child!" "Our 
heiress ! " " Ours ! " for still, 

Like echoes from beyond a hollow, 
came 

Her sicklier iteration. Last he said, 

" Boy, mark me ! for your fortunes 
are to make. 

I swear you shall not make them out 
of mine. 

Now inasmuch as you have practised 
on her, 

Perplext her, made her half forget 
herself, 

Swerve from her duty to herself and 
us — 

Things in an Aylmer deem'd impos- 
sible, 

Far as we track ourselves — I say 
that this — 

Else I withdraw favor and counte- 
nance 

From you and yours for ever — shall 
you do. 

Sir, when you see her — but you shall 
not see her — 

No, you shall write, and not to her, 
but me : 

And you shall say that having spoken 
with me, 



And after look'd into yourself, you 

find 
That you meant nothing — as indeed 

you know 
That you meant nothing. Such a 

match as this ! 
Impossible, prodigious ! " These were 

words, 
As meted by his measure of himself, 
Arguing boundless forbearance : after 

which, 
And Leolin's horror-stricken answer, 

"I 
So foul a traitor to myself and her, 
Never oh never," for about as long 
As the wind-hover hangs in balance, 

paused 
Sir Aylmer reddening from the storm 

within, 
Then broke all bonds of courtesy, and 

crying 
" Boy, should I find you by my doors 

again, 
My men shall lash you from them like 

a dog; 
Hence ! " with a sudden execration 

drove 
The footstool from before him, and 

arose ; 
So, stammering "scoundrel" out of 

teeth that ground 
As in a dreadful dream, while Leolin 

still 
Retreated half-aghast, the fierce old 

man 
Follow'd, and under his own lintel 

stood 
Storming with lifted hands, a hoary 

face 
Meet for the reverence of the hearth, 

but now, 
Beneath a pale and unimpassion'd 

moon, 
Vext with unworthy madness, and 

deform'd. 

Slowly and conscious of the rageful 

eye 
That watch'd him, till he heard the 

ponderous door 
Close, crashing with long echoes thro' 

the land, 



146 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



Went Leolin; then, his passions all 

in flood 
And masters of his motion, furiously 
Down thro' the bright lawns to his 

brother's ran, 
And foam'd away his heart at Aver- 

ill's ear : 
Whom Averill solaced as he might, 

amazed : 
The man was his, had been his fath- 
er's, friend : 
He must have seen, himself had seen 

it long ; 
He must have known, himself had 

known: besides, 
He never yet had set his daughter 

forth 
Here in the woman-markets of the 

west, 
Where our Caucasians let themselves 

be sold. 
Some one, he thought, had slander'd 

Leolin to him. 
" Brother, for I have loved you more 

as son 
Than brother, let me tell you : I my- 
self— 
What is their pretty saying? jilted, 

is it? 
Jilted I was : I say it for your peace. 
Pain'd, and, as bearing in myself the 

shame 
The woman should have borne, humili- 
ated, 
I lived for years a stunted sunless life ; 
Till after our good parents past away 
Watching your growth, I seem'd again 

to grow. 
Leolin, I almost sin in envying you : 
The very whitest lamb in all my fold 
Loves you : I know her : the worst 

thought she has 
Is whiter even than her pretty hand : 
She must prove true : for, brother, 

where two fight 
The strongest wins, and truth and love 

are strength, 
And you are happy : let her parents 

be." 

But Leolin cried out the more upon 
them — 



Insolent, brainless, heartless ! heiress, 
wealth, 

Their wealth, their heiress! wealth 
enough was theirs 

For twenty matches. Were he lord 
of this, 

Why twenty boys and girls should 
marry on it, 

And forty blest ones bless him, and 
himself 

Be wealthy still, ay wealthier. He 
believed 

This filthy marriage-hindering Mam- 
mon made 

The harlot of the cities : nature crost 

Was mother of the foul adulteries 

That saturate soul with body. Name, 
too ! name, 

Their ancient name! they might be 
proud ; its worth 

Was being Edith's. Ah how pale she 
had look'd 

Darling, to-night! they must have 
rated her 

Beyond all tolerance. These old 
pheasant-lords, 

These partridge-breeders of a thou- 
sand years, 

Who had mildew'd in their thousands, 
doing nothing 

Since Egbert — why, the greater their 
disgrace ! 

Eall back upon a name ! rest, rot in 
that! 

Not keep it noble, make it nobler? 
fools, 

With such a vantage-ground for noble- 
ness! 

He had known a man, a quintessence 
of man, 

The life of all — who madly loved — 
and he, 

Thwarted by one of these old father- 
fools, 

Had rioted his life out, and made an 
end. 

He would not do it ! her sweet face 
and faith 

Held him from that : but he had pow- 
ers, he knew it : 

Back would he to his studies, make a 
name, 



AYLMEFS FIELD. 



147 



Name, fortune too : the world should 

ring of him 
To shame these mouldy Aylmers in 

their graves : 
Chancellor, or what is greatest would 

he be — 
"O brother, I am grieved to learn 

your grief — 
Give me my fling, and let me say my 

say." 

At which, like one that sees his own 

excess, 
And easily forgives it as his own, 
He laugh'd ; and then was mute ; but 

presently 
Wept like a storm : and honest Averill 

seeing 
How low his brother's mood had fallen, 

fetch'd 
His richest beeswing from a binn re- 
served 
For banquets, praised the waning red, 

and told 
The vintage — when this Aylmer came 

of age — 
Then drank and past it ; till at length 

the two, 
Tho' Leolin flamed and fell again, 

agreed 
That much allowance must be made 

for men. 
After an angry dream this kindlier 

glow 
Faded with morning, but his purpose 

held. 

Yet once by night again the lovers 

met, 
A perilous meeting under the tall pines 
That darken'd all the northward of 

her Hall. 
Him, to her meek and modest bosom 

prest 
In agony, she promised that no force, 
Persuasion, no, nor death could alter 

her: 
He, passionately hopef uller, would go, 
Labor for his own Edith, and return 
In such a sunlight of prosperity 
He should not be rejected. " Write to 

me! 



They loved me, and because I love 

their child 
They hate me : there is war between 

us, dear, 
Which breaks all bonds but ours ; we 

must remain 
Sacred to one another." So they 

talk'd, 
Poor children, for their comfort : the 

wind blew ; 
The rain of heaven, and their own 

bitter tears, 
Tears, and the careless rain of heaven, 

mixt 
Upon their faces, as they kiss'd each 

other 
In darkness, and above them roar'd 

the pine. 

So Leolin went ; and as we task our- 
selves 
To learn a language known but smat- 

teringly 
In phrases here and there at random, 

toil'd 
Mastering the lawless science of our 

law, 
That codeless myriad of precedent, 
That wilderness of single instances, 
Thro' which a few, by wit or fortune 

led, 
May beat a pathway out to wealth and 

fame. 
The jests, thatflash'd about the plead- 

er's room, 
Lightning of the hour, the pun, the 

scurrilous tale, — 
Old scandals buried now seven decades 

deep 
In other scandals that have lived and 

died, 
And left the living scandal that shall 

die — 
Were dead to him already ; bent as he 

was 
To make disproof of scorn, and strong 

in hopes, 
And prodigal of all brain-labor he, 
Charier of sleep, and wine, and exer- 
cise, 
Except when for a breathing-while at 

eve, 



148 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



Some niggard fraction of an hour, he 

ran 
Beside the river-bank : and then indeed 
Harder the times were, and the hands 

of power 
Were bloodier, and the according 

hearts of men 
Seem'd harder too ; but the soft river- 
breeze, 
Which f ann'd the gardens of that rival 

rose 
Yet fragrant in a heart remembering 
His former talks with Edith, on him 

breathed 
Far purelier in his rushings to and fro, 
After his books, to flush his blood with 

air, 
Then to his books again. My lady's 

cousin, 
Half-sickening of his pension'd after- 
noon, 
Drove in upon the student once or 

twice, 
Ran a Malayan amuck against the 

times, 
Had golden hopes for France and all 

mankind, 
Answer'd all queries touching those at 

home 
With a heaved shoulder and a saucy 

smile, 
And fain had haled him out into the 

world, 
And air'd him there : his nearer friend 

would say 
" Screw not the chord too sharply lest 

it snap." 
Then left alone he pluck'd her dagger 

forth 
From where his worldless heart had 

kept it warm, 
Kissing his vows upon it like a knight. 
And wrinkled benchers often talk'd of 

him 
Approvingly, and prophesied his rise : 
For heart, I think, help'd head : her 

letters too, 
Tho' far between, and coming fitfully 
Like broken music, written as she 

found 
Or made occasion, being strictly 

watch'd, 



Charm'd him thro' every labyrinth till 

he saw 
An end, a hope, a light breaking upon 

him. 

But they that cast her spirit into 

flesh, 
Her worldly-wise begetters, plagued 

themselves 
To sell her, those good parents, for her 

good. 
Whatever eldest-born of rank or 

wealth 
Might lie within their compass, him 

they lured 
Into their net made pleasant by the 

baits 
Of gold and beauty, wooing him to woo. 
So month by month the noise about 

their doors, 
And distant blaze of those dull ban- 
quets, made 
The nightly wirer of their innocent 

hare 
Falter before he took it. All in vain. 
Sullen, defiant, pitying, wroth, return'd 
Leolin's rejected rivals from their suit 
So often, that the folly taking wings 
Slipt o'er those lazy limits down the 

wind 
With rumor, and became in other fields 
A mockery to the yeomen over ale, 
And laughter to their lords : but those 

at home, 
As hunters round a hunted creature 

draw, 
The cordon close and closer toward 

the death, 
Narrow'd her goings out and comings 

in; 
Forbade her first the house of Averill, 
Then closed her access to the wealthier 

farms, 
Last from her own home-circle of the 

poor 
They barr'd her : yet she bore it : yet 

her cheek 
Kept color: wondrous ! but, O mystery ! 
What amulet drew her down to that 

old oak, 
So old, that twenty years before, a 

part 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



149 



Falling had let appear the brand of 
John — 

Once grovelike, each huge arm a tree, 
but now 

The broken base of a black tower, a 
cave 

Of touchwood, with a single flourish- 
ing spray. 

There the manorial lord too curiously 

Raking in that millennial touchwood- 
dust 

Found for himself a bitter treasure- 
trove ; 

Burst his own wy vern on the seal, and 
read 

Writhing a letter from his child, for 
which 

Came at the moment Leolin's emissary, 

A crippled lad, and coming turn'd to 

But scared with threats of jail and 
halter gave 

To him that fiuster'd his poor parish 
wits 

The letter which he brought, and swore 
besides 

To play their go-between as heretofore 

Nor let them know themselves be- 
tray'd ; and then, 

Soul-stricken at their kindness to him, 
went 

Hating his own lean heart and miser- 
able. 

Thenceforward oft from out a despot 

dream 
The father panting woke, and oft, as 

dawn 
Aroused the black republic on his elms, 
Sweeping the frothfly from the fescue 

brush'd 
Thro' the dim meadow toward his 

treasure-trove, 
Seized it, took home, and to my lady, 

— who made 
A downward crescent of her minion 

mouth, 
Listless in all despondence, — read ; 

and tore, 
As if the living passion symbol'd there 
Were living nerves to feel the rent; 

and burnt, 



Now chafing at his own great self 

defied, 
Now striking on huge stumbling-blocks 

of scorn 
In babyisms, and dear diminutives 
Scatter'd all over the vocabulary 
Of such a love as like a chidden child, 
After much wailing, hush'd itself at 

last 
Hopeless of answer : then tho' Averill 

wrote 
And bade him with good heart sustain 

himself — 
All would be well — the lover heeded 

not, 
But passionately restless came and 

went, 
And rustling once at night about the 

place, 
There by a keeper shot at, slightly 

hurt, 
Raging re turn'd : nor was it well for her 
Kept to the garden now, and grove of 

pines, 
Watch'd even there ; and one was set 

to watch 
The watcher, and Sir Aylmer watch'd 

them all, 
Yet bitterer from his readings : once 

indeed, 
Warm'd with his wines, or taking pride 

in her, 
She look'd so sweet, he kiss'd her 

tenderly 
Not knowing what possess'd him : 

that one kiss 
Was Leolin's one strong rival upon 

earth ; 
Seconded, for my lady follow'd suit, 
Seem'd hope's returning rose : and 

then ensued 
A Martin's summer of his faded love, 
Or ordeal by kindness ; after this 
He seldom crost his child without a 

sneer ; 
The mother flow'd in shallower acrimo- 
nies : 
Never one kindly smile, one kindly 

word : 
So that the gentle creature shut from 

all 
Her charitable use, and face to face 



150 



AYLMER"S FIELD. 



With twenty months of silence, slowly 

lost 
Nor greatly cared to lose, her hold on 

life. 
Last, some low fever ranging round 

to spy 
The weakness of a people or a house, 
Like flies that haunt a wound, or deer, 

or men, 
Or almost all that is, hurting the 

hurt — 
Save Christ as we believe him — found 

the girl 
And flung her down upon a couch of 

fire, 
Where careless of the household faces 

near, 
And crying upon the name of Leolin, 
fiJhe, and with her the race of Aylmer, 

past. 

Star to star vibrates light: may 

soul to soul 
Strike thro' a finer element of her 

own? 
So, — from afar, — touch as at once 1 

or why 
That night, that moment, when she 

named his name, 
Did the keen shriek " Yes love, yes, 

Edith, yes," 
Shrill, till the comrade of his cham- 
bers woke, 
And came upon him half-arisen from 

sleep, 
With a weird bright eye, sweating and 

trembling, 
His hair as it were crackling into 

flames, 
His body half flung forward in pursuit, 
And his long arms stretch'd as to grasp 

a flyer : 
Nor knew he wherefore he had made 

the cry ; 
And being much befool'd and idioted 
By the rough amity of the other, sank 
As into sleep again. The second day, 
My lady's Indian kinsman rushing in, 
A breaker of the bitter news from 

home, 
Found a dead man, a letter edged with 

death 



Beside him, and the dagger which him- 
self 

Gave Edith, redden'd with no bandit's 
blood : 

" From Edith " was engraven on the 
blade. 



Then Averill went and gazed upon 

his death. 
And when he came again, his flock 

believed — 
Beholding how the years which are 

not Time's 
Had blasted him — that many thou- 
sand days 
Were dipt by horror from his term 

of life. 
Yet the sad mother, for the second 

death 
Scarce touch'd her thro' that nearness 

of the first, 
And being used to find her pastor 

texts, 
Sent to the harrow'd brother, praying 

him 
To speak before the people of her 

child, 
And fixt the Sabbath. Darkly that 

day rose : 
Autumn's mock sunshine of the faded 

woods 
Was all the life of it; for hard on 

these, 
A breathless burthen of low-folded 

heavens 
Stifled and chilPd at once ; but every 

roof 
Sent out a listener : many too had 

known 
Edith among the hamlets round, and 

since 
The parents' harshness and the hap- 
less loves 
And double death were widely mur- 

mur'd, left 
Their own gray tower, or plain-faced 

tabernacle, • 
To hear him ; all in mourning these, 

and those 
With blots of it about them, ribbon, 

glove 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



151 



Or kerchief ; while the church, — one 

night, except 
For greenish glimmerings thro' the 

lancets, — made 
Still paler the pale head of him, who 

tower'd 
Above them, with his hopes in either 

grave. 

Long o'er his bent brows linger' d 

Averill, 
His face magnetic to the hand from 

which 
Livid he pluck'd it forth, and labor'd 

thro' 
His brief prayer-prelude, gave the 

verse " Behold, 
Your house is left unto you desolate ! " 
But lapsed into so long a pause 

again 
As half amazed half frighted all his 

flock : 
Then from his height and loneliness 

of grief 
Bore down in flood, and dash'd his 

angry heart 
Against the desolations of the world. 

Never since our bad earth became 
one sea, 

Which rolling o'er the palaces of the 
proud, 

And all but those who knew the liv- 
ing God — 

Eight that were left to make a purer 
world — 

When since had flood, fire, earthquake, 
thunder, wrought 

Such waste and havoc as the idola- 
tries, 

Which from the low light of mortality 

Shot up their shadows to the Heaven 
of Heavens, 

And worshipt their own darkness as 
the Highest ? 

" Gash thyself, priest, and honor thy 
brute Baal, 

And to thy worst self sacrifice thyself, 

For with thy worst self hast thou 
clothed thy God. 

Then came a Lord in no wise like to 
Baal. 



The babe shall lead the lion. Surely 

now 
The wilderness shall blossom as the 

rose. 
Crown thyself, worm, and worship 

thine own lusts ! — 
No coarse and blockish God of acreage 
Stands at thy gate for thee to grovel 

to — 
Thy God is far diffused in noble groves 
And princely halls, and farms, and 

flowing lawns, 
And heaps of living gold that daily 

grow, 
And title-scrolls and gorgeous heral- 
dries. 
In such a shape dost thou behold thy 

God. 
Thou wilt not gash thy flesh for him/ 

for thine 
Fares richly, in fine linen, not a hair 
Ruffled upon the scarf skin, even while 
The deathless ruler of thy dying house 
Is wounded to the death that cannot 

die; 
And tho' thou numberest with the 

followers 
Of One who cried, ' Leave all and fol- 
low me.' 
Thee therefore with His light about 

thy feet, 
Thee with His message ringing in thine 

ears, 
Thee shall thy brother man, the Lord 

from Heaven, 
Born of a village girl, carpenter's son, 
Wonderful, Prince of peace, the 

Mighty God, 
Count the more base idolater of the 

two ; 
Crueller : as not passing thro' the fire 
Bodies, but souls — thy children's — 

thro' the smoke. 
The blight of low desires — darkening 

thine own 
To thine own likeness ; or if one of 

these, 
Thy better born unhappily from thee, 
Should, as by miracle, grow straight 

and fair — 
Friends, I was bid to speak of such a 

one 



152 



AYLME&S FIELD. 



By those who most have cause to sor- 
row for her — 

Fairer than Rachel by the palmy well, 

Fairer than Ruth among the fields of 
corn, 

Fair as the angel that said ' Hail ! ' 
she seem'd, 

Who entering fill'd the house with 
sudden light. 

For so mine own was brightened: 
where indeed 

The roof so lowly but that beam of 
Heaven 

Dawn'd sometime thro' the doorway 1 
whose the babe 

Too ragged to be fondled on her lap, 

Warm'd at her bosom ? The poor 
child of shame 

The common care whom no one cared 
for, leapt 

To greet her, wasting his forgotten 
heart, 

As with the mother he had never 
known, 

In gambols ; for her fresh and inno- 
cent eyes 

Had such a star of morning in their 
blue, 

That all neglected places of the field 

Broke into nature's music when they 
saw her. 

Low was her voice, but won mysteri- 
ous way 

Thro' the seal'd ear to which a louder 
one 

Was all but silence — free of alms 
her hand — 

The hand that robed your cottage- 
walls with flowers 

Has often toil'd to clothe your little 
ones; 

How often placed upon the sick man's 
brow 

Cool'd it, or laid his feverous pillow 
smooth ! 

Had you one sorrow and she shared 
it not? 

One burthen and she would not lighten 
it? 

One spiritual doubt she did not soothe ? 

Or when some heat of difference 
sparkled out, 



How sweetly would she glide between 

your wraths, 
And steal you from each other! for 

she walk'd 
Wearing the light yoke of that Lord 

of love, 
Who still'd the rolling wave of 

Galilee! 
And one — of him I was not bid to 

speak — 
Was always with her, whom you also 

knew. 
Him too you loved, for he was worthy 

love. 
And these had been together from the 

first; 
They might have been together till 

the last. 
Friends, this frail bark of ours, when 

sorely tried, 
May wreck itself without the pilot's 

guilt, 
Without the captain's knowledge : 

hope with me. 
Whose shame is that, if he went 

hence with shame ? 
Nor mine the fault, if losing both of 

these 
I cry to vacant chairs and widow'd 

walls, 
'My house is left unto me desolate.'" 

While thus he spoke, his hearers 
wept ; but some, 

Sons of the glebe, with other frowns 
than those 

That knit themselves for summer 
shadow, scowl'd 

At their great lord. He, when it 
seem'd he saw 

No pale sheet-lightnings from afar, 
but fork'd 

Of the near storm, and aiming at his 
head, 

Sat anger-charm'd from sorrow, sol- 
dier-like, 

Erect: but when the preacher's ca- 
dence flow'd 

Softening thro' all the gentle attri- 
butes 

Of his lost child, the wife, who watch'd 
his face, 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



153 



Paled at a sudden twitch of his iron 

mouth ; 
And " O pray God that he hold up " 

she thought 
,( Or surely I shall shame myself and 

him." 

"Nor yours the blame — for who 

beside your hearths 
Can take her place — if echoing me 

you cry 
'Our house is left unto us desolate' ? 
But thou, O thou that killest, hadst 

thou known, 
O thou that stonest, hadst thou under- 
stood 
The things belonging to thy peace 

and ours ! 
Is there no prophet but the voice that 

calls 
Doom upon kings, or in the waste 

1 Repent ' 1 
Is not our own child on the narrow 

way, 
Who down to those that saunter in 

the broad 
Cries ' Come up hither/ as a prophet 

tO US'? 

Is there no stoning save with flint 

and rock? 
Yes, as the dead we weep for testify — 
No desolation but by sword and fire ? 
Yes, as your moanings witness, and 

myself 
Am lonelier, darker, earthlier for my 

loss. 
Give me your prayers, for he is past 

your prayers, 
Not past the living fount of pity in 

Heaven. 
But I that thought myself long-suffer- 
ing, meek, 
Exceeding 'poor in spirit' — how the 

words 
Have twisted back upon themselves, 

and mean 
Vileness, we are grown so proud — I 

wish'd my voice 
A rushing tempest of the wrath of God 
To blow these sacrifices thro' the 

world — 
Sent like the twelve-divided concubine 



To inflame the tribes: but there — 
out yonder — earth 

Lightens from her own central Hell 
— there 

The red fruit of an old idolatry — 

The heads of chiefs and princes fall 
so fast, 

They cling together in the ghastly 
sack — 

The land all shambles —naked mar 
riages 

Flash from the bridge, and ever-mur- 
der'd France, 

By shores that darken with the gath- 
ering wolf, 

Runs in a river Of blood to the sick sea. 

Is this a time to madden madness then % 

Was this a time for these to flaunt 
their pride ? 

May Pharaoh's darkness, folds as 
dense as those 

Which hid the Holiest from the peo- 
ple's eyes 

Ere the great death, shroud this great 
sin from all ! 

Doubtless our narrow world must 
canvass it : 

O rather pray for those and pity them, 

Who, thro' their own desire accom- 
plish'd, bring 

Their own gray hairs with sorrow to 
the grave — 

Who broke the bond which they 
desired to break, 

Which else had link'd their race with 
times to come — 

Who wove coarse webs to snare her 
purity, 

Grossly contriving their dear daugh- 
ter's good — 

Poor souls, and knew not what they 
did, but sat 

Ignorant, devising their own daugh- 
ter's death ! 

May not that earthly chastisement 
suffice ? 

Have not our love and reverence left 
them bare ? 

Will not another take their heritage ? 

Will there be children's laughter in 
their hall 

For ever and for ever, or one stone 



154 



AYLME&S FIELD. 



Left on another, or is it a light thing 
That I, their guest, their host, their 

ancient friend, 
I made by these the last of all my 

race, 
Must cry to these the last of theirs, as 

cried 
Christ ere His agony to those that 

swore 
Not by the temple but the gold, and 

made 
Their own traditions God, and slew 

the Lord, 
And left their memories a world's 

curse — f Behold, 
Your house is left unto you deso- 
late'?" 

Ended he had not, but she brook'd 
no more : 

Long since her heart had beat remorse- 
lessly, 

Her crampt-up sorrow pain'd her, and 
a sense 

Of meanness in her unresisting life. 

Then their eyes vext her ; for on en- 
tering 

He had cast the curtains of their seat 
aside — 

Black velvet of the costliest — she 
herself 

Had seen to that : fain had she closed 
them now, 

Yet dared not stir to do it, only near'd 

Her husband inch by inch, but when 
she laid, 

Wifelike, her hand in one of his, he 
veil'd 

His face with the other, and at once, 
as falls 

A creeper when the prop is broken, 
fell 

The woman shrieking at his feet, and 
swoon'd. 

Then her own people bore along the 
nave 

Her pendent hands, and narrow mea- 
gre face 

Seam'd with the shallow cares of fifty 
years : 

And her the Lord of all the landscape 
round 



Ev'n to its last horizon, and of all 
Who peer'd at him so keenly, f ollow'd 

out 
Tall and erect, but in the middle aisle 
ReePd, as a footsore ox in crowded 

ways 
Stumbling across the market to his 

death, 
Unpitied ; for he groped as blind, and 

seem'd 
Always about to fall, grasping the 

pews 
And oaken finials till he touch'd the 

door ; 
Yet to the lychgate, where his chariot 

stood, 
Strode from the porch, tall and erect 

again. 

But nevermore did either pass the 
gate 

Save under pall with bearers. In one 
month, 

Thro* weary and yet ever wearier 
hours, 

The childless mother went to seek her 
child ; 

And when he felt the silence of his 
house 

About him, and the change and not 
the change, 

And those fixt eyes of painted ances- 
tors 

Staring for ever from their gilded 
walls 

On him their last descendant, his own 
head 

Began to droop, to fall ; the man be- 
came 

Imbecile; his one word was "deso- 
late " ; 

Dead for two years before his death 
was he ; 

But when the second Christmas came, 
escaped 

His keepers, and the silence which he 
felt, 

To find a deeper in the narrow 
gloom 

By wife and child ; nor wanted at his 
end 

The dark retinue reverencing death 






SEA DREAMS. 



155 



At golden thresholds ; nor from tender 

hearts, 
And those who sorrow'd o'er a van- 

ish'd race, 
Pity, the violet on the tyrant's grave. 
Then the great Hall was wholly broken 

down, 
And the broad woodland parcell'd into 

farms ; 
And where the two contrived their 

daughter's good, 
Lies the hawk's cast, the mole has 

made his run, 
The hedgehog underneath the plan- 
tain bores, 
The rabbit fondles his own harmless 

face, 
The slow-worm creeps, and the thin 

weasel there 
Follows the mouse, and all is open 

field. 

SEA DREAMS. 

A city clerk, but gently born and 
bred; 

His wife, an unknown artist's orphan 
child — 

One babe was theirs, a Margaret, three 
years old : 

They, thinking that her clear ger- 
mander eye 

Droopt in the giant-factoried city- 
gloom, 

Came, with a month's leave given 
them, to the sea : 

For which his gains were dock'd, how- 
ever small : 

Small were his gains, and hard his 
work ; besides, 

Their slender household fortunes (for 
the man 

Had risk'd his little) like the little 
thrift, 

Trembled in perilous places o'er a 
deep : 

And oft, when sitting all alone, his 
face 

Would darken, as he cursed his credu- 
lousness, 

And that one unctuous mouth which 
lured him, rogue, 



To buy strange shares in some Peru- 
vian mine. 

Now seaward-bound for health they 
gain'd a coast, 

All sand and cliff and deep-inrunning 
cave, 

At close of day; slept, woke, and 
went the next, 

The Sabbath, pious variers from the 
church, 

To chapel ; where a heated pulpiteer, 

Not preaching simple Christ to simple 
men, 

Announced the coming doom, and ful- 
minated 

Against the scarlet woman and her 
creed ; 

For sideways up he swung his arms, 
and shriek'd 

" Thus, thus with violence," ev'n as if 
he held 

The Apocalyptic millstone, and him- 
self 

Were that great Angel ; " Thus with 
violence 

Shall Babylon be cast into the sea; 

Then comes the close." The gentle- 
hearted wife 

Sat shuddering at the ruin of a world ; 

He at his own : but when the wordy 
storm 

Had ended, forth they came and paced 
the shore, 

Ran in and out the long sea-framing 
caves, 

Drank the large air, and saw, but 
scarce believed 

(The sootflake of so many a summer 
still 

Clung to their fancies) that they saw, 
the sea. 

So now on sand they walk'd, and now 
on cliff, 

Lingering about the thymy promon- 
tories, 

Till all the sails were darken'd in the 
west, 

And rosed in the east : then homeward 
and to bed : 

Where she, who kept a tender Chris- 
tian hope, 

Haunting a holy text, and still to that 



156 



SEA DREAMS. 



Returning, as the bird returns, at' 

night, 
" Let not the sun go clown upon your 

wrath/' 
Said, "Love, forgive him:" but he 

did not speak ; 
And silenced by that silence lay the 

wife, 
Remembering her dear Lord who died 

for all, 
And musing on the little lives of men, 
And how they mar this little by their 

feuds. 

But while the two were sleeping, a 

full tide 
Rose with ground-swell, which, on the 

foremost rocks 
Touching, up jetted in spirts of wild 

sea-smoke, 
And scaled in sheets of wasteful foam, 

and fell 
In vast sea-cataracts — ever and anon 
Dead claps of thunder from within 

the cliffs 
Heard thro' the living .roar. At this 

the babe, 
Their Margaret cradled near them, 

wail'd and woke 
The mother, and the father suddenly 

cried, 
" A wreck, a wreck ! " then turn'd, and 

groaning said, 

" Forgive ! How many will say, ' for- 
give,' and find 
A sort of absolution in the sound 
To hate a little longer ! No ; the sin 
That neither God nor man can well 

forgive, 
Hypocrisy, I saw it in him at once. 
Is it so true that second thoughts are 

best? 
Not first, and third, which are a riper 

first? 
Too ripe, too late ! they come too late 

for use. 
Ah love, there surely lives in man and 

beast 
Something divine to warn them of 

their foes : 



And such a sense, when first I fronted 

him, 
Said, 'Trust him not;' but after, 

when I came 
To know him more, I lost it, knew him 

less; 
Fought with what seem'd my own 

uncharity ; 
Sat at his table ; drank his costly wines; 
Made more and more allowance for 

his talk ; 
Went further, fool ! and trusted him 

with all, 
All my poor scrapings from a dozen 

years 
Of dust and deskwork : there is no 

such mine, 
None ; but a gulf of ruin, swallowing 

gold, 
Not making. Ruin'd! ruin'd! the 

sea roars 
Ruin : a fearful night ! " 

" Not fearful ; fair," 
Said the good wife, " if every star in 

heaven 
Can make it fair: you do but hear 

the tide. 
Had you ill dreams V 

" O yes," he said, " I dream'd 
Of such a tide swelling toward the land, 
And I from out the boundless outer 

deep 
Swept with it to the shore, and enter'd 

one 
Of those dark caves that run beneath 

the cliffs. 
I thought the motion of the boundless 

deep 
Bore thro' the cave, and I was heaved 

upon it 
In darkness: then I saw one lovely star 
Larger and larger. ' What a world/ 

I thought, 
' To live in ! ' but in moving on I found 
Only the landward exit of the cave, 
Bright with the sun upon the stream 

beyond : 
And near the light a giant woman sat, 
All over earthy, like a piece of earth, 
A pickaxe in her hand : then out I slipt 



SEA DREAMS. 



157 



Into a land all sun and blossom, trees 
As high as heaven, and every bird 

that sings : 
And here the night-light flickering in 

my eyes 
Awoke me." 

" That wasv then your dream," she 
said, 
" Not sad, but sweet." 

" So sweet, I lay," said he, 
" And mused upon it, drifting up the 

stream 
In fancy, till I slept again, and pieced 
The broken vision ; for I dream'd that 

still 
The motion of the great deep bore 

me on, 
And that the woman walk'd upon 

the brink : 
I wonder'd at her strength, and ask'd 

her of it : 
'It came/ she said, 'by working in 

the mines : ' 
O then to ask her of my shares, I 

thought ; 
And ask'd ; but not a word ; she shook 

her head. 
And then the motion of the current 

ceased, 
And there was rolling thunder; and 

we reach'd 
A mountain, like a wall of burs and 

thorns ; 
But she with her strong feet up the 

hill 
Trod out a path : I f ollow'd ; and at 

top 
She pointed seaward : there a fleet of 

glass, 
That seem'd a fleet of jewels under me, 
Sailing along before a gloomy cloud 
That not one moment ceased to thun- 
der, past 
In sunshine: right across its track 

there lay, 
Down in the water, a long reef of gold, 
Or what seem'd gold : and I was glad 

at first 
To think that in our often-ransack'd 

world 



Still so much gold was left ; and then 
I fear'd 

Lest the gay navy there should splin- 
ter on it, 

And fearing waved my arm to warn 
them off; 

An idle signal, for the brittle fleet 

(I thought I could have died to save 
it) near'd, 

Touch'd, clink'd, and clash'd, and 
vanish'd, and I woke, 

I heard the clash so clearly. Now I 
see 

My dream was Life ; the woman hon- 
est Work ; 

And my poor venture but a fleet of 
glass 

Wreck'd on a reef of visionary gold." 

" Nay," said the kindly wife to com- 
fort him, 

" You raised your arm, you tumbled 
down and broke 

The glass with little Margaret's medi- 
cine in it ; 

And, breaking that, you made and 
broke your dream : 

A trifle makes a dream, a trifle breaks." 

"No trifle," groan'd the husband; 

"yesterday 
I met him suddenly in the street, and 

ask'd 
That which I ask'd the woman in my 

dream. 
Like her, he shook his head. ' Show 

me the books ! ' 
He dodged me with a long and loose 

account. 
' The books, the books ! ' but he, he 

could not wait, 
Bound on a matter he of life and 

death : 
When the great Books (see Danie\ 

seven and ten) 
Were open'd, I should find he meant 

me well; 
And then began to bloat himself, and 

ooze 
All over with the fat affectionate smile 
That makes the widow lean. 'My 

dearest friend. 



158 



SEA DREAMS. 



Have faith, have faith ! We live by- 
faith/ said he ; 

' And all things work together for the 
good 

Of those ' — it makes me sick to quote 
him — last 

Gript my hand hard, and with God- 
bless-you went. 

I stood like one that had received a 
blow: 

I found a hard friend in his loose ac- 
counts, 

A loose one in the hard grip of his 
hand, 

A curse in his God-bless-you : then my 
eyes 

Pursued him down the street, and far 
away, 

Among the honest shoulders of the 
crowd, 

Read rascal in the motions of his back, 

And scoundrel in the supple-sliding 
knee." 

"Was he so bound, poor soul?" 

said the good wife ; 
" So are we all : but do not call him, 

love, 
Before you prove him, rogue, and 

proved, forgive. 
His gain is loss; for he that wrongs 

his friend 
Wrongs himself more, and ever bears 

about 
A silent court of justice in his breast, 
Himself the judge and jury, and him- 
self 
The prisoner at the bar, ever con- 

demn'd : 
And that drags down his life : then 

comes what comes 
Hereafter : and he meant, he said he 

meant, 
Perhaps he meant, or partly meant, 

you well." 

" ' With all his conscience and one 
eye askew ' — 
Love, let me quote these lines, that 

you may learn 
A man is likewise counsel for himself, 



Too often, in that silent court of 

yours — 
' With all his conscience and one eye 

askew, 
So false, he partly took himself for 

true; 
Whose pious talk, when most his 

heart was dry, 
Made wet the crafty crowsfoot round 

his eye ; 
Who, never naming God except for 

gain, 
So never took that useful name in 

vain, 
Made Him his catspaw and the Cross 

his tool, 
And Christ the bait to trap his dupe 

and fool ; 
Nor deeds of gift, but gifts of grace 

he forged, 
And snake-like slimed his victim ere 

he gorged ; 
And oft at Bible meetings, o'er the 

rest 
Arising, did his holy oily best, 
Dropping the too rough H in Hell 

and Heaven, 
To spread the Word by which him- 
self had thriven.' 
How like you this old satire ? " 

"Nay," she said, 
" I loathe it : he had never kindly 

heart, 
Nor ever cared to better his own kind, 
Who first wrote satire, with no pity 

in it. 
But will you hear my dream, for I 

had one 
That altogether went to music 1 Still 
It awed me." 

Then she told it, having dream 'd 
Of that same coast. 



— But round the North, a light, 
A belt, it seem'd, of luminous vapor, 

lay* 

And ever in it a low musical note 
Swell'd up and died; and, as it 
swell'd, a ridge 



SEA DREAMS. 



159 



Of breaker issued from the belt, and 

still 
Grew with the growing note, and when 

the note 
Had reach'd a thunderous fullness, 

on those cliffs 
Broke, mixt with awful light (the 

same as that 
Living within the belt) whereby she 

saw 
That all those lines of cliffs were 

cliffs no more, 
But huge cathedral fronts of every 

age, 
Grave, florid, stern, as far as eye 

could see, 
One after one : and then the great 

ridge drew, 
Lessening to the lessening music, 

back, 
And past into the belt and swell'd 

again 
Slowly to music : ever when it broke 
The statues, king or saint, or founder 

fell; 
Then from the gaps and chasms of 

ruin left 
Came men and women in dark clusters 

round, 
Some crying, " Set them up ! they shall 

not fall ! " 
And others, " Let them lie, for they 

have fall'n." 
And still they strove and wrangled : 

and she grieved 
In her strange dream, she knew not 

why, to find 
Their wildest wailings never out of 

tune 
With that sweet note; and ever as 

their shrieks 
Ran highest up the gamut, that great 

wave 
Returning, while none mark'd it, on 

the crowd 
Broke, mixt with awful light, and 

show'd their eyes 
Glaring, with passionate looks, and 

swept away 
The men of flesh and blood, and men 

of stone, 
To the waste deeps together. 



" Then I fixt 
My wistful eyes on two fair images, 
Both crown'd with stars and high 

among the stars, — 
The Virgin Mother standing with her 

child 
High up on one of those dark min- 
ster-fronts — 
Till she began to totter, and the child 
Clung to the mother, and sent out a 

cry 
Which mixt with little Margaret's, 

and I woke, 
And my dream awed me: — well — 

but what are dreams ? 
Yours came but from the breaking of 

a glass, 
And mine but from the crying of a 

child." 

" Child ? No ! " said he, " but this 

tide's roar, and his, 
Our Boanerges with his threats of 

doom, 
And loud-lung'd Antibabylonianisms 
(Altho' I grant but little music there) 
Went both to make your dream : but 

if there were 
A music harmonizing our wild cries, 
Sphere-music such as that you 

dream'd about, 
Why, that would make our passions 

far too like 
The discords dear to the musician 

No — 
One shriek of hate would jar all the 

hymns of heaven : 
True Devils with no ear, they howl 

in tune 
With nothing but the Devil ! " 

" ' True ' indeed ! 

One out of our town, but later by an 
hour 

Here than ourselves, spoke with me 
on the shore ; 

While you were running down the 
sands, and made 

The dimpled flounce of the sea-furbe- 
low flap, 

Good man, to please the child. Sh6 
brought strange news. 



160 



LUCRETIUS. 



Why were you silent when I spoke 

to-night ? 
I had set my heart on your forgiving 

him 
Before you knew. We must forgive 

the dead." 

" Dead ! who is dead 1 " 

" The man your eye pursued. 

A little after you had parted with 
him, 

He suddenly dropt dead of heart- 
disease." 

" Dead ? he 1 of heart-disease ? what 

heart had he 
To die of? dead?" 

" Ah, dearest, if there be 
A devil in man, there is an angel too, 
And if he did that wrong you charge 

him with, 
His angel broke his heart. But your 

rough voice 
(You spoke so loud) has roused the 

child again. 
Sleep, little birdie, sleep ! will she not 

sleep 
Without her ' little birdie ' 1 well then, 

sleep, 
And I will sing you, ' birdie.' " 

Saying this, 
The woman half turn'd round from 

him she loved, 
Left him one hand, and reaching 

thro' the night 
Her other, found (for it was close 

beside) 
And half-embraced the basket cradle- 
head 
With one soft arm, which, like the 

pliant bough 
That moving moves the nest and 

nestling, sway'd 
The cradle, while she sang this baby 

song. 

What does little birdie say 
In her nest at peep of day ? 
Let me fly, says little birdie, 



Mother, let me fly away. 
Birdie, rest a little longer, 
Till the little wings are stronger. 
So she rests a little longer, 
Then she flies away. 

What does little baby say, 
In her bed at peep of day ? 
Baby says, like little birdie, 
Let me rise and fly away. 
Baby, sleep a little longer, 
Till the little limbs are stronger. 
If she sleeps a little longer, 
Baby too shall fly away. 

"She sleeps : let us too, let all evil, 

sleep. 
He also sleeps — another sleep than 

ours. 
He can do no more wrong: forgive 

him, dear, 
And I shall sleep the sounder ! " 

Then the man, 
" His deeds yet live, the worst is yet 

to come. 
Yet let your sleep for this one night 

be sound : 
I do forgive him ! " 

"Thanks, my love," she said, 
" Your own will be the sweeter/' and 
they slept. 



LUCRETIUS. 

Lucilia, wedded to Lucretius, found 
Her master cold ; for when the morn- 
ing flush 
Of passion and the first embrace had 

died 
Between them, tho' he lov'd her none 

the less, 
Yet often when the woman heard his 

foot 
Return from pacings in the field, and 

ran 
To greet him with a kiss, the master 

took 
Small notice, or austerely, for — his 

mind 






LUCRETIUS. 



161 



Half buried in some weightier argu- 
ment, 

Or fancy, borne perhaps upon the rise 

And long roll of the Hexameter — he 
past 

To turn and ponder those three hun- 
dred scrolls 

Left by the Teacher, whom he held 
divine. 

She brook'd it not ; but wrathful, pet- 
ulant, 

Dreaming some rival, sought and 
found a witch 

Who brew'd the philtre which had 
power, they said, 

To lead an errant passion home again. 

And this, at times, she mingled with 
his drink, 

And this destroy 'd him ; for the wicked 
broth 

Confused the chemic labor of the 
blood, 

And tickling the brute brain within 
the man's 

Made havoc among those tender cells, 
and check'd 

His power to shape : he loathed him- 
self ; and once 

After a tempest woke upon a morn 

That mock'd him with returning calm, 
and cried : 

" Storm in the night ! for thrice I 
heard the rain 

Rushing; and once the flash of a 
thunderbolt — 

Methought I never saw so fierce a 
fork — 

Struck out the streaming mountain- 
side, and show'd 

A riotous confluence of watercourses 

Blanching and billowing in a hollow 
of it, 

vVhere all but yester-eve was dusty- 
dry. 

" Storm, and what dreams, ye holy 

Gods, what dreams ! 
For thrice I waken'd after dreams. 

Perchance 
We do but recollect the dreams that 

come 



Just ere the waking : terrible ! for it 

seem'd 
A void was made in Nature ; all her 

bonds 
Crack'd ; and I saw the flaring atom- 
streams 
And torrents of her myriad universe, 
Ruining along the illimitable inane, 
Fly on to clash together again, and 

make 
Another and another frame of things 
For ever : that was mine, my dream, i 

knew it — 
Of and belonging to me, as the dog 
With inward yelp and restless forefoot 

plies 
His function of the woodland : but the 

next ! 
I thought that all the blood by Sylla 

shed 
Came driving rainlike down again on 

earth, 
And where it dash'd the reddening 

meadow, sprang 
No dragon warriors from Cadmean 

teeth, 
For these I thought my dream would 

show to me, 
But girls, Hetairai, curious in their art, 
Hired animalisms, vile as those that 

made 
The mulberry-faced Dictator's orgies 

worse 
Than aught they fable of the quiet 

Gods. 
And hands they mixt, and yell'd and 

round me drove 
In narrowing circles till I yell'd again 
Half-suffocated, and sprang up, and 

saw — 
Was it the first beam of my latest 

day? 

" Then, then, from utter gloom stood 

out the breasts, 
The breasts of Helen, and hoveringly 

a sword 
Now over and now under, now direct, 
Pointed itself to pierce, but sank down 

shamed 
At all that beauty ; and as I stared, a 

fire, 



162 



LUCRETIUS. 



The fire that left a roofless Ilion, 
Shot out of them, and scorch'd me 
that I woke. 

" Is this thy vengeance, holy Venus, 

thine, 
Because I would not one of thine own 

doves, 
Not ev'n a rose, were offer'd to thee ? 

thine, 
Forgetful how my rich prooemion 

makes 
Thy glory fly along the Italian field, 
In lays that will outlast thy Deity 1 

" Deity ? nay, thy worshippers. My 
tongue 

Trips, or I speak profanely. Which of 
these 

Angers thee most, or angers thee at 
all? 

Not if thou be'st of those who, far 
aloof 

Erom envy, hate and pity, and spite 
and scorn, 

Live the great life which all our great- 
est fain 

Would follow, center'd in eternal calm. 

" Nay, if thou canst, O Goddess, like 
ourselves 

Touch, and be touch'd, then would I 
cry to thee 

To kiss thy Mavors, roll thy tender 
arms 

Round him, and keep him from the 
lust of blood 

That makes a steaming slaughter- 
house of Rome. 

" Ay, but I meant not thee ; I meant 

not her, 
Whom all the pines of Ida shook to 

see 
Slide from that quiet heaven of hers, 

and tempt 
The Trojan, while his neat-herds were 

abroad ; 
Nor her that o'er her wounded hunter 

wept 
Her Deity false in human-amorous 

tears : 



Nor whom her beardless apple-arbiter 
Decided fairest. Rather, O ye Gods, 
Poet-like, as the great Sicilian called 
Calliope to grace his golden verse — 
Ay, and this Kypris also — did I take 
That popular name of thine to shadow 

forth 
The all-generating powers and genial 

heat 
Of Nature, when she strikes thro' the 

thick blood 
Of cattle, and light is large, and lambs 

are glad 
Nosing the mother's udder, and the 

bird 
Makes his heart voice amid the blaze 

of flowers : 
Which things appear the work of 

mighty Gods. 

" The Gods ! and if I go, my work is 

left 
Unfinish'd — if I go. The Gods, who 

haunt 
The lucid interspace of world and 

world, 
Where never creeps a cloud, or moves 

a wind, 
Nor ever falls the least white star of 

snow, 
Nor ever lowest roll of thunder moans, 
Nor sound of human sorrow mounts to 

mar 
Their sacred everlasting calm ! and 

such, 
Not all so fine, nor so divine a calm, 
Not such, nor all unlike it, man may 

gain 
Letting his own life go. The Gods, 

the Gods ! 
If all be atoms, how then should the 

Gods 
Being atomic not be dissoluble, 
Not follow the great law 1 My master 

held 
That Gods there are, for all men so 

believe. 
I prest my footsteps into his, and 

meant 
Surely to lead my Memmius in a train 
Of flowery clauses onward to the proof 
That Gods there are, and deathless. 



LUCRETIUS. 



163 



Meant ? I meant 7 
I have forgotten what I meant : my 

mind 
Stumbles, and all my faculties are 

lamed. 

" Look where another of our Gods, 

the Sun, 
Apollo, Delius, or of older use 
All-seeing Hyperion — what you 

will — 
Has mounted yonder; since he never 

sware, 
Except his wrath were wreak'd on 

wretched man, 
That he would only shine among the 

dead 
Hereafter; tales! for never yet on 

earth 
Could dead flesh creep, or bits of roast- 
ing ox 
Moan round the spit — nor knows he 

what he sees ; 
King of the East altho' he seem, and 

girt 
With song and flame and fragrance, 

slowly lifts 
His golden feet on those empurpled 

stairs 
That climb into the windy halls of 

heaven : 
And here he glances on an eye new- 
born, 
And gets for greeting but a wail of 

pain ; 
And here he stays upon a freezing 

orb 
That fain would gaze upon him to the 

last ; 
And here upon a yellow eyelid f all'n 
And closed by those who mourn a 

friend in vain, 
Not thankful that his troubles are no 

more. 
And me, altho' his fire is on my face 
Blinding, he sees not, nor at all can 

tell 
Whether I mean this day to end my- 
self, 
Or lend an ear to Plato where he says, 
That men like soldiers may not quit 

the post 



Allotted by the Gods : but he that 
holds 

The Gods are careless, wherefore need 
he care 

Greatly for them, nor rather plunge 
at once, 

Being troubled, wholly out of sight, 
and sink 

Past earthquake — ay, and gout and 
stone, that break 

Body toward death, and palsy, death- 
in-life, 

And wretched age — and worst disease 
of all, 

These prodigies of myriad naked- 
nesses, 

And twisted shapes of lust, unspeak- 
able, 

Abominable, strangers at my hearth 

Not welcome, harpies miring every 
dish, 

The phantom husks of something 
foully done, 

And fleeting thro' the boundless uni- 
verse, 

And blasting the long quiet of my 
breast 

With animal heat and dire insanity? 

"How should the mind, except it 

loved them, clasp 
These idols to herself % or do they fly 
Now thinner, and now thicker, like 

the flakes 
In a fall of snow, and so press in, per- 
force 
Of multitude, as crowds that in an 

hour 
Of civic tumult jam the doors, and 

bear 
The keepers down, and throng, their 

rags and they 
The basest, far into that council-hall 
Where sit the best ari stateliest of 

the land ? 

" Can I not fling this horror off me 

again, 
Seeing witli how great ease Nature 

can smile, 
Balmier and nobler from her bath of 

storm, 



164 



LUCRETIUS. 



At random ravage 1 and how easily 
The mountain there has cast his 

cloudy slough, 
Now towering o'er him in serenest air, 
A mountain o'er a mountain, — ay, 

and within 
All hollow as the hopes and fears of 

men ? 

" But who was he, that in the gar- 
den snared 
Picus and Faunus, rustic Gods 1 a tale 
To laugh at — more to laugh at in 

myself — 
Nor look ! what is it ? there ? yon 

arbutus 
Totters ; a noiseless riot underneath 
Strikes through the wood, sets all the 

tops quivering — 
The mountain quickens into Nymph 

and Faun ; 
And here an Oread — how the sun 

delights 
To glance and shift about her slippery 

sides, 
And rosy knees and supple rounded- 

ness, 
And budded bosom-peaks — who this 

way runs 
Before the rest — A satyr, a satyr, see, 
Follows ; but him I proved impossible ; 
Twy-natured is no nature : yet he 

draws 
Nearer and nearer, and I scan him 

now 
Beastlier than any phantom of his 

kind 
That ever butted his rough brother- 
brute 
For lust or lusty blood or provender : 
I hate, abhor, spit, sicken at him ; and 

she 
Loathes him as well ; such a precipi- 
tate heel, 
Fledged as it were with Mercury's 

ankle-wing, 
Whirls her to me : but will she fling 

herself, 
Shameless upon me 1 Catch her, 

goat-foot : nay, 
Hide, hide them, million-myrtled 

wilderness, 



And cavern-shadowing laurels, hide' 
do I wish — 

What % — that the bush were leafless ? 
or to whelm 

All of them in one massacre ? ye 
Gods, 

I know you careless, yet, behold, to 
you 

From childly wont and ancient use I 
call — 

I thought I lived securely as your- 
selves ■ — 

No lewdness, narrowing envy, monkey- 
spite, 

No madness of ambition, avarice, 
none : 

No larger feast than under plane or 
pine 

With neighbors laid along the grass, 
to take 

Only such cups as left us friendly- 
warm, 

Affirming each his own philosophy — 

Nothing to mar the sober majesties 

Of settled, sweet, Epicurean life. 

But now it seems some unseen mon- 
ster lays 

His vast and filthy hands upon my 
will, 

Wrenching it backward into his ; and 
spoils 

My bliss in being ; and it was not 
great ; 

For save when shutting reasons up in 
rhythm, 

Or Heliconian honey in living words, 

To make a truth less harsh, I often 
grew 

Tired of so much within our little life, 

Or of so little in our little life — 

Poor little life that toddles half an 
hour 

Crown'd with a flower or two, and 
there an end — 

And since the nobler pleasure seems 
to fade, 

Why should I, beastlike as I find my- 
self, 

Not manlike end myself 1 — our privi- 
lege — 

What beast has heart to do it ? And 
what man, 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 165 



What Roman would be dragg'd in tri- 
umph thus ? 

Not I ; not he, who bears one name 
with her 

Whose death-blow struck the dateless 
doom of kings, 

When, brooking not the Tarquin in 
her veins, 

She made her blood in sight of Col- 
latin e 

And ail his peers, flushing the guiltless 
air, 

Spout from the maiden fountain in 
her heart. 

And from it sprang the Common- 
wealth, which breaks 

As I am breaking now ! 

" And therefore now 
Let her, that is the womb and tomb 

of all, 
Great Nature, take, and forcing far 

apart 
Those blind beginnings thathave made 

me man, 
Dash them anew together at her will 
Thro' all her cycles — into man once 

more, 
Or beast or bird or fish, or opulent 

flower : 
But till this cosmic order everywhere 
Shatter' d into one earthquake in one 

day 
Cracks all to pieces, — and that hour 

perhaps 
Is not so far when momentary man 
Shall seem no more a something to 

himself, 
But he, his hopes and hates, his homes 

and fanes, 
And even his bones long laid within 

the grave, 
The very sides of the grave itself 

shall pass, 
Vanishing, atom and void, atom and 

void, 
Into the unseen for ever, — till that 

hour, 
My golden work in which I told a truth 
That stays the rolling Ixionian wheel, 
And numbs the Fury's ringlet-snake, 

and plucks 



The mortal soul from out immortal 

hell, 
Shall stand : ay, surely : then it fails 

at last 
And perishes as I must ; for O Thou, 
Passionless bride, divine Tranquillity, 
Yearn'd after by the wisest of the 

wise, 
Who fail to find thee, being as thou 

art 
Without one pleasure and without one 

pain, 
Howbeit I know thou surely must be 

mine 
Or soon or late, yet out of season, thus 
I woo thee roughly, for thou carest not 
How roughly men may woo thee so 

they win — 
Thus — thus : the soul flies out and 

dies in the air." 

With that he drove the knife into 

his side : 
She heard him raging, heard him fall ; 

ran in, 
Beat breast, tore hair, cried out upon 

herself 
As having fail'd in duty to him, 

shriek'd 
That she but meant to win him back, 

fell on him, 
Clasp'd, kiss'd him, wail'd : he an- 

swer'd, " Care not thou ! 
Thy duty? What is duty 1 ? Fare 

thee well ! " 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE 
DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 

PUBLISHED IN 1852. 



Bury the Great Duke 

With an empire's lamentation, 
Let us bury the Great Duke 

To the noise of the mourning of a 
mighty nation, 
Mourning when their leaders fall, 
Warriors carry the warrior's pall, 
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall. 



166 ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 



Where shall we lay the man whom 

we deplore ? 
Here, in streaming London's central 

roar. 
Let the sound of those he wrought for, 
And the feet of those he fought for, 
Echo round his bones for evermore. 



Lead out the pageant : sad and slow, 
As fits an universal woe, 
Let the long long procession go, 
And let the sorrowing crowd about it 

grow, 
And let the mournful martial music 

blow; 
The last great Englishman is low. 



Mourn, for to us he seems the last, 
Remembering all his greatness in the 

Past. 
No more in soldier fashion will he 

greet 
With lifted hand the gazer in the 

street. 
O friends, our chief state-oracle is 

mute : 
Mourn for the man of long-enduring 

blood, 
The statesman-warrior, moderate, res- 
olute, 
Whole in himself, a common good. 
Mourn for the man of amplest influ- 
ence, 
Yet clearest of ambitious crime, 
Our greatest yet with least pretence, 
Great in council and great in war, 
Foremost captain of his time, 
Rich in saving common-sense, 
And, as the greatest only are, 
In his simplicity sublime. 
O good gray head which all men knew, 
voice from which their omens all 

men drew, 
iron nerve to true occasion true, 
fall'n at length that tower of 

strength 
Which stood four-square to all the 
winds that blew ! 



Such was he whom we deplore. 
The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er. 
The great World-victor's victor will 
be seen no more. 



v. 

All is over and done : 

Render thanks to the Giver, 

England, for thy son. 

Let the bell be toll'd. 

Render thanks to the Giver, 

And render him to the mould. 

Under the cross of gold 

That shines over city and river, 

There he shall rest for ever 

Among the wise and the bold. 

Let the bell be toll'd : 

And a reverent people behold 

The towering car, the sable steeds : 

Bright let it be with its blazon'd 

deeds, 
Dark in its funeral fold. 
Let the bell be toll'd : 
And a deeper knell in the heart be 

knoll'd ; 
And the sound of the sorrowing an- 
them roll'd 
Thro' the dome of the golden cross ; 
And the volleying cannon thunder his 

loss ; 
He knew their voices of old. 
For many a time in many a clime 
His captain's-ear has heard them 

boom 
Bellowing victory, bellowing doom: 
When he with those deep voices 

wrought, 
Guarding realms and kings from 

shame ; 
With those deep voices our dead cap- 
tain taught 
The tyrant, and asserts his claim 
In that dread sound to the great name 
Which he has worn so pure of blame, 
In praise and in dispraise the same, 
A man of well-attemper'd frame. 
O civic muse, to such a name, 
To such a name for ages long, 
To such a name, 

Preserve a broad approach of fame, 
And ever-echoing avenues of song. 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 167 



Who is he that cometh, like an hon- 

or'd guest, 
With banner and with music, with 

soldier and with priest, 
With a nation weeping, and breaking 

on my rest % 
Mighty Seaman, this is he 
Was great by land as thou by sea. 
Thine island loves thee well, thou 

famous man, 
The greatest sailor since our world 

began. 
Now, to the roll of muffled drums, 
To thee the greatest soldier comes ; 
For this is he 

Was great by land as thou by sea; 
His foes were thine ; he kept us free ; 
O give him welcome, this is he 
Worthy of our gorgeous rites, 
And worthy to be laid by thee ; 
For this is England's greatest son, 
He that gain'd a hundred fights, 
Nor ever lost an English gun : 
This is he that far away 
Against the myriads of Assaye 
Clashed with his fiery few and won ; 
And underneath another sun, 
Warring on a later day, 
Round affrighted Lisbon drew 
The treble works, the vast designs 
Of his labor'd rampart-lines, 
Where he greatly stood at bay, 
Whence he issued forth anew, 
And ever great and greater grew, 
Beating from the wasted vines 
Back to France her banded swarms, 
Back to France with countless blows, 
Till o'er the hills her eagles flew 
Beyond the Pyrenean pines, 
Follow'd up in valley and glen 
With blare of bugle, clamor of men, 
Roll of cannon and clash of arms, 
And England pouring on her foes. 
Such a war had such a close. 
Again their ravening eagle rose 
In anger, wheel'd on Europe-shadow- 
ing wings, 
And barking for the thrones of kings ; 
Till one that sought but Duty's iron 

crown 



On that loud Sabbatli shook the 

spoiler down ; 
A day of onsets of despair! 
Dash'd on every rocky square 
Their surging charges foam'd them- 
selves away; 
Last, the Prussian trumpet blew ; 
Thro' the long-tormented air 
Heaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray, 
And down we swept and charged and 

overthrew. 
So great a soldier taught us there, 
What long-enduring hearts could do 
In that world earthquake, Waterloo ! 
Mighty Seaman, tender and true, 
And pure as he from taint of craven 

guile, 
O saviour of the silver-coasted isle, 
O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, 
If aught of things that here befall 
Touch a spirit among things divine, 
If love of country move thee there at 

all, 
Be glad, because his bones are laid by 

thine ! 
And thro' the centuries let a people's 

voice 
In full acclaim, 
A people's voice, 
The proof and echo of all human 

fame, 
A people's voice, when they rejoice 
At civic revel and pomp and game, 
Attest their great commander's claim 
With honor, honor, honor, honor to 

him, 
Eternal honor to his name. 



A people's voice ! we are a people yet. 

Tho' all men else their nobler dreams 
forget, 

Confused by brainless mobs and law- 
less Powers ; 

Thank Him who isled us here, and 
roughly set 

His Briton in blown seas and storming 
showers, 

We have a voice, with which to pay 
the debt 

Of boundless love and reverence and 
regret 



168 ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 



To those great men who fought, and 

kept it ours. 
And keep it ours, God, from brute 

control; 
Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, 

the soul 
Of Europe, keep our noble England 

whole, 
And save the one true seed of free- 
dom sown 
Betwixt a people and their ancient 

throne, 
That sober freedom out of which 

there springs 
Our loyal passion for our temperate 

kings ; 
For, saving that, ye help to save man- 
kind 
Till public wrong be crumbled into 

dust, 
And drill the raw world for the march 

of mind, 
Till crowds at length be sane and 

crowns be just. 
But wink no more in slothful over- 
trust. 
Remember him who led your hosts ; 
He bade you guard the sacred coasts. 
Your cannons moulder on the seaward 

wall ; 
His voice is silent in your council-hall 
Eor ever ; and whatever tempests lour 
For ever silent ; even if they broke 
In thunder, silent ; yet remember all 
He spoke among you, and the Man 

who spoke ; 
Who never sold the truth to serve the 

hour, 
Nor palter'd with Eternal God for 

power ; 
Who let the turbid streams of rumor 

flow 
Thro' either babbling world of high 

and low ; 
Whose life was work, whose language 

rife 
With rugged maxims hewn from life ; 
Who never spoke against a foe ; 
Whose eighty winters freeze with one 

rebuke 
All great self-seekers trampling on 

the right : 



Truth-teller was our England's Alfred 

named ; 
Truth-lover was our English Duke ; 
Whatever record leap to light 
lie never shall be shamed. 



Lo, the leader in these glorious wars 
Now to glorious burial slowly borne, 
Follow'd by the brave of other lands, 
He, on whom from both her open 

hands 
Lavish Honor shower'd all her stars, 
And affluent Fortune emptied all her 

horn. 
Yea, let all good things await 
Him who cares not to be great, 
But as he saves or serves the state. 
Not once or twice in our rough island- 
story, 
The path of duty was the way to glory: 
He that walks it, only thirsting 
For the right, and learns to deaden 
Love of self, before his journey closes, 
He shall find the stubborn thistle 

bursting 
Into glossy purples, which outredden 
All voluptuous garden-roses. 
Not once or twice in our fair island- 
story, 
The path of duty was the way to glory . 
He, that ever following her commands. 
On with toil of heart and knees and 

hands, 
Thro' the long gorge to the far light 

has won 
His path upward, and prevail'd, 
Shall find the toppling crags of Duty 

scaled 
Are close upon the shining table- 
lands 
To which our God Himself is moon 

and sun. 
Such was he : his work is done. 
But while the races of mankind en- 
dure, 
Let his great example stand 
Colossal, seen of every land, 
And keep the soldier firm, the states- 
man pure : 
Till in all lands and thro' all human 
story 



THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY, 1852. 



169 



The path of duty be the way to glory : 
And let the land whose hearts he 

saved from shame 
For many and many an age proclaim 
At civic revel and pomp and game, 
And when the long-illumined cities 

flame, 
Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame s 
With honor, honor, honor, honor to 

him, 
Eternal honor to his name. 



Peace, his triumph will be sung 
By some yet unmoulded tongue 
Far on in summers that we shall not 

see: 
Peace, it is a day of pain 
For one about whose patriarchal knee 
Late the little children clung : 
peace, it is a day of pain 
For one, upon whose hand and heart 

and brain 
Once the weight and fate of Europe 

hung. 
Ours the pain, be his the gain ! 
More than is of man's degree 
Must be with us, watching here 
At this, our great solemnity. 
Whom we see not we revere ; 
We revere, and we refrain 
From talk of battles loud and vain, 
And brawling memories all too free 
For such a wise humility 
As befits a solemn fane : 
We revere, and while we hear 
The tides of Music's golden sea 
Setting toward eternity, 
Uplifted high in heart and hope are 

we, 
Until we doubt not that for one so 

true 
There must be other nobler work to 

do 
Than when he fought at Waterloo, 
And Victor he must ever be. 
For tho' the Giant Ages heave the 

hill 
And break the shore, and evermore 
Make and break, and work their will ; 
Tho' world on world in myriad myriads 

roll 



Round us, each with different powers, 
And other forms of life than ours, 
What know we greater than the soul ? 
On God and Godlike men we build our 

trust. 
Hush, the Dead March wails in the 

people's ears : 
The dark crowd moves, and there arc 

sobs and tears : 
The black earth yawns : the mortal 

disappears ; 
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust; 
He is gone who seem'd so great. — 
Gone ; but nothing can bereave him 
Of the force he made his own 
Being here, and we believe him 
Something far advanced in State, 
And that he wears a truer crown 
Than any wreath that man can weave 

him. 
Speak no more of his renown, 
Lay your earthly fancies down, 
And in the vast cathedral leave him. 
God accept him, Christ receive him. 



THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY, 

1852. 
My Lords, we heard you speak : you 
told us all 
That England's honest censure went 
too far ; 
That our free press should cease to 
brawl, 
Not sting the fiery Frenchman into 
war. 
It was our ancient privilege, my Lords, 
To fling whate'er we felt, not fearing, 
into words. 

We love not this French God, the 
child of Hell, 
Wild War, who breaks the converse 
of the wise ; 

But though we love kind Peace so 
well, 
We dare not ev'n by silence sanction 
lies. 

It might be safe our censures to with- 
draw ; 

And yet, my Lords, not well : there is 
a higher law. 



170 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 



As long as we remain, we must speak 

free, 
Tho' all the storm of Europe on us 

break ; 
No little German state are we, 

But the one voice in Europe : we 

must speak ; 
That if to-night our greatness were 

struck dead, 
There might be left some record of 

the things we said. 

If you be fearful, then must we be 

bold. 
Our Britain cannot salve a tyrant 

o'er. 
Better the waste Atlantic roll'd 

On her and us and ours for evermore. 
What ! have we fought for Freedom 

from our prime, 
At last to dodge and palter with a 

public crime ? 

Shall we fear him ? our own we never 

fear'd. 
Erom our first Charles by force we 

wrung our claims. 
Prick'd by the Papal spur, we rear'd, 
We flung the burden of the second 

James. 
I say, we never feared ! and as for these, 
We broke them on the land, we drove 

them on the seas. 

And you, my Lords, you make the 

people muse 
In doubt if you be of our Barons' 

breed — 
Were those your sires who fought at 

Lewes '? 
Is this the manly strain of Runny- 

mede ? 
fall'n nobility, that, overawed, 
Would lisp in honey'd whispers of 

this monstrous fraud ! 

We feel, at least, that silence here 

were sin, 
Not ours the fault if we have feeble 

hosts — 
If easy patrons of their kin 



Have left the last free race with 

naked coasts ! 
They knew the precious things they 

had to guard : 
For us, we will not spare the tyrant 

one hard word. 

Tho' niggard throats of Manchester 

may bawl, 
What England was, shall her true 

sons forget ? 
We are not cotton-spinners all, 

But some love England and her 

honor yet. 
And these in our Thermopylae shall 

stand, 
And hold against the world this honor 

of the land. 



THE CHABGE OE THE LIGHT 
BRIGADE. 



Half a league, half a league, 
Half a league onward, 

All in the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 

" Forward, the Light Brigade ! 

Charge for the guns," he said: 

Into the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 



" Forward, the Light Brigade ! " 
Was there a man dismay'd ? 
Not tho' the soldier knew 

Some one had blunder'd : 
Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do and die : 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 



Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them 

Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well, 



OPENING OF THE INTERNATIONAL EXHIBITION 171 



Into the jaws of Death, 

Into the mouth of Hell 

Rode the six hundred. 



Flash'd all their sabres bare, 
Flash'd as they turn'd in air 
Sabring the gunners there, 
Charging an army, while 

All the world wonder'd : 
Plunged in the battery-smoke 
Right thro* the line they broke ; 
Cossack and Russian 
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke 

Shattered and sunder'd. 
Then they rode back, but not, 

Not the six hundred. 



Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them 

Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell, 
They that had fought so well 
Came thro' the jaws of Death, 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them, 

Left of six hundred. 

VI. 

"When can their glory fade 1 
O the wild charge they made ! 

All the world wonder'd. 
Honor the charge they made ! 
Honor the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred ! 



ODE SUNG AT THE OPENING 
OF THE INTERNATIONAL 
EXHIBITION. 



Uplift a thousand voices full and 
sweet, 

In this wide hall with earth's inven- 
tion stored, 

And praise the invisible universal 
Lord, 



Who lets once more in peace the na- 
tions meet, 
Where Science, Art, and Labor 
have outpour'd 

Their myriad horns of plenty at our 
feet. 



O silent father of our Kings to be 
Mourn'din this golden hour of jubilee, 
For this, for all, we weep our thanks 
to thee ! 

in. 

The world-compelling plan was 

thine, — 
And, lo ! the long laborious miles 
Of Palace ; lo ! the giant aisles, 
Rich in model and design ; 
Harvest-tool and husbandry, 
Loom and wheel and enginery, 
Secrets of the sullen mine, 
Steel and gold, and corn and wine, 
Fabric rough, or fairy-fine, 
Sunny tokens of the Line, 
Polar marvels, and a feast 
Of wonder, out of West and East, 
And shapes and hues of Art divine ! 
All of beauty, all of use, 
That one fair planet can produce, 

Brought from under eveiy star, 
Blown from over every main, 
And mixt, as life is mixt with pain, 

The works of peace with works of 
war. 

IV. 

Is the goal so far away 1 

Far, how far no tongue can say, 

Let us dream our dream to-day. 



ye, the wise who think, the wise who 
reign, 

From growing commerce loose her 
latest chain, 

And let the fair white-wing'd peace- 
maker fly 

To happy havens under all the sky, 

And mix the seasons and the golden 
hours ; 

Till each man find his own in all 
men's good, 



172 



A WELCOME TO MARIE ALEXANDROVNA. 



And all men work in noble brother- 
hood, 

Breaking their mailed fleets and 
armed towers, 

And ruling by obeying Nature's 
powers, 

And gathering all the fruits of earth 
and crown'd with all her flow- 



A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA. 

MARCH 7, 1863. 

Sea-kings' daughter from over the 

sea, Alexandra ! 

Saxon and Norman and Dane are we, 
But all of us Danes in our welcome 

of thee, Alexandra ! 

Welcome her, thunders of fort and of 

fleet! 
Welcome her, thundering cheer of the 

street ! 
Welcome her, all things youthful and 

sweet, 
Scatter the blossom under her feet ! 
Break, happy land, into earlier flow- 
ers! 
Make music, O bird, in the new-budded 

bowers ! 
Blazon your mottoes of blessing and 

prayer ! 
Welcome her, welcome her, all that is 

ours ! 
Warble, O bugle, and trumpet, blare ! 
Flags, flutter out upon turrets and 

towers ! 
Flames, on the windy headland flare ! 
Utter your jubilee, steeple and spire ! 
Clash, ye bells, in the merry March 

air! 
Flash, ye cities, in rivers of fire ! 
Rush to the roof, sudden rocket, and 

higher 
Melt into stars for the land's desire ! 
Roll and rejoice, jubilant voice, 
Roll as a ground-swell dash'd on the 

strand, 
Roar as the sea when he welcomes the 

land, 
And welcome her, welcome the land's 

desire, 



The sea-kings' daughter as happy as 

fair, 
Blissful bride of a blissful heir, 
Bride of the heir of the kings of the 

sea — 
O joy to the people and joy to the 

throne, 
Come to us, love us and make us your 

own : 
For Saxon or Dane or Norman we, 
Teuton or Celt, or whatever we be, 
We are each ail Dane in our welcome 

of thee, Alexandra ! 



A WELCOME TO HER ROYAL 
HIGHNESS MARIE ALEX- 
ANDROVNA, DUCHESS OF 
EDINBURGH. 

MARCH 7, 1874. 



The Son of him with whom we strove 
for power — 
Whose will is lord thro' all his 

world-domain — 
Who made the serf a man, and burst 
his chain — 
Has given our Prince his own imperial 
Flower, 

Alexandrovna. 
And welcome, Russian flower, a 
people's pride, 
To Britain, when her flowers begin 

to blow ! 
From love to love, from home to 
home you go, 
From mother unto mother, stately 
bride, 

Marie Alexandrovna ! 



The golden news along the steppes is 
blown, 
And at thy name the Tartar tents 

are stirr'd ; 
Elburz and all the Caucasus have 
heard ; 
And all the sultry palms of India 
known, 

Alexandrovna. 



THE GRANDMOTHER. 



173 



The voices of our universal sea 

On capes of Afric as on cliffs of 

Kent, 
The Maoris and that Isle of Conti- 
nent, 
And loyal pines of Canada murmur 
thee, 

Marie Alexandrovna ! 



Fair empires branching, both, in lusty 
life ! — 
Yet Harold's England fell to Nor- 
man swords ; 
Yet thine own land has bow'd to 
Tartar hordes 
Since English Harold gave its throne 
a wife, 

Alexandrovna ! 
For thrones and peoples are as waifs 
that swing, 
And float or fall, in endless ebb and 

flow ; 
But who love best have best the 
grace to know 
That Love by right divine is deathless 
king, 

Marie Alexandrovna ! 



And Love has led thee to the stranger 
land, 



Where men are bold and strongly 

say their say ; — 
See, empire upon empire smiles to- 
day, 
As thou with thy young lover hand in 
hand, 

Alexandrovna ! 
So now thy fuller life is in the west, 
Whose hand at home was gracious 

to thy poor : 
Thy name was blest within the nar- 
row door ; 
Here also, Marie, shall thy name be 
blest, 

Marie Alexandrovna ! 



Shall fears and jealous hatreds flame 
again % 
Or at thy coming, Princess, every- 
where, 
The blue heaven break, and some 
diviner air 
Breathe thro' the world and change 
the hearts of men, 

Alexandrovna ! 
But hearts that change not, love that 
cannot cease, 
And peace be yours, the peace of 

soul in soul ! 
And howsoever this wild world may 
roll, 
Between your people's truth and man- 
ful peace, 

Alfred — Alexandrovna ! 



THE GRANDMOTHER 



And Willy, my eldest-born, is gone, you say, little Anne 1 
Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, he looks like a man. 
And Willy's wife has written : she never was over-wise, 
Never the wife for Willy : he wouldn't take my advice. 



For, Annie, you see, her father was not the man to save, 
Hadn't a head to manage, and drank himself into his grave. 
Pretty enough, very pretty ! but I was against it for one. 
Eh ! — but he wouldn't hear me — and Willy, you say, is gone. 



174 THE GRANDMOTHER. 



Willy, my beauty, my eldest-born, the flower of the flock; 

Never a man could fling him : for Willy stood like a rock. 

" Here's a leg for a babe of a week ! " says doctor ; and he would be bound, 

There was not his like that year in twenty parishes round. 



Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still of his tongue J 
I ought to have gone before him : I wonder he went so young. 
I cannot cry for him, Annie : I have not long to stay ; 
Perhaps I shall see him the sooner, for he lived far away. 



Why do you look at me, Annie ? you think I am hard and cold ; 
But all my children have gone before me, I am so old : 
I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the rest ; 
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best. 

VI. 

For I remember a quarrel I had with your father, my dear, 
All for a slanderous story, that cost me many a tear. 
I mean your grandfather, Annie : it cost me a world of woe, 
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago. 

VII. 

For Jenny, my cousin, had come to the place, and I knew right well 
That Jenny had tript in her time : I knew, but I would not tell. 
And she to be coming and slandering me, the base little liar ! 
But the tongue is a fire as you know, my dear, the tongue is a fire. 

VIII. 

And the parson made it his text that week, and he said likewise, 
That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies, 
That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright, 
But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight. 



And Willy had not been down to the farm for a week and a day; 
And all things look'd half-dead, tho' it was the middle of May. 
Jenny, to slander me, who knew what Jenny had been ! 
But soiling another, Annie, will never make one's self clean. 



And I cried myself well-nigh blind, and all of an evening late 

I climb'd to the top of the garth, and stood by the road at the gate. 

The moon like a rick on fire was rising over the dale, 

And whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside me chirrupt the nightingale. 






THE GRANDMOTHER. 175 



All of a sudden he stopt : there past by the gate of the farm, 
Willy, — he didn't see me, — and Jenny hung on his arm. 
Out into the road I started, and spoke I scarce knew how ; 
Ah, there's no fool like the old one — it makes me angry now. 



Willy stood up like a man, and look'd the thing that he meant ; 
Jenny, the viper, made me a mocking curtsey and went. 
And I said, " Let us part : in a hundred years it'll all be the same, 
You cannot love me at all, if you love not my good name." 



And he turn'd, and I saw his eyes all wet, in the sweet moonshine : 
" Sweetheart, I love you so well that your good name is mine. 
And what do I care for Jane, let her speak of you well or ill; 
But marry me out of hand : we two shall be happy still." 



" Marry you, Willy ! " said I, " but I needs must speak my mind, 
And I fear you'll listen to tales, be jealous and hard and unkind." 
But he turn'd and claspt me in his arms, and answer'd, " No, love, no ; 
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago. 



So Willy and I were wedded : I wore a lilac gown ; 
And the ringers rang with a will, and he gave the ringers a crown. 
But the first that ever I bare was dead before he was born, 
Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and thorn. 



That was the first time, too, that ever I thought of death. 

There lay the sweet little body that never had drawn a breath. 

I had not wept, little Anne, not since I had been a wife ; 

But I wept like a child that day, for the babe had fought for his life. 



His dear little face was troubled, as if with anger or pain : 

I look'd at the still little body — his trouble had all been in vain. 

For Willy I cannot weep, I shall see him another morn : 

But I wept like a child for the child that was dead before he was born. 



But he cheer'd me, my good man, for he seldom said me nay : 
Kind, like a man, was he ; like a man, too, would have his way : 
Never jealous — not he: we had many a happy year; 
And he died, and I could not weep — my own time seem'd so near. 



176 THE GRANDMOTHER. 



But I wish'd it had been God's will that I, too, then could have died : 
I began to be tired a little, and fain had slept at his side. 
And that was ten years back, or more, if I don't forget : 
But as to the children, Annie, they're all about me yet. 



Pattering over the boards, my Annie who left me at two, 
Patter she goes, my own little Annie, an Annie like you : 
Pattering over the boards, she comes and goes at her will, 
While Harry is in the five-acre and Charlie ploughing the hill. 



And Harry and Charlie, I hear them too — they sing to their team: 
Often they come to the door in a pleasant kind of a dream. 
They come and sit by my chair, they hover about my bed — 
I am not always certain if they be alive or dead. 



And yet I know for a truth, there's none of them left alive ; 
For Harry went at sixty, your father at sixty-five : 
And Willy, my eldest-born, at nigh threescore and ten; 
I knew them all as babies, and now they're elderly men. 



For mine is a time of peace, it is not often I grieve ; 
I am oftener sitting at home in my father's farm at eve : 
And the neighbors come and laugh and gossip, and so do I; 
I find myself often laughing at things that have long gone by. 



To be sure the preacher says, our sins should make us sad : 
But mine is a time of peace, and there is Grace to be had ; 
And God, not man, is the Judge of us all when life shall cease 
And in this Book, little Annie, the message is one of Peace. 



And age is a time of peace, so it be free from pain, 
And happy has been my life ; but I would not live it again. 
I seem to be tired a little, that's all, and long for rest ; 
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best. 



So Willy has gone, my beauty, my eldest-born, my flower ; 
But how can I weep for Willy, he has but gone for an hour, 
Gone for a minute, my son, from this room into the next ; 
I, too, shall go in a minute. What time have I to be vext ? 






NORTHERN FARMER. 177 



XXVII. 



And Willy's wife has written, she never was over-wise. 
Get me my glasses, Annie : thank God that I keep my eyes. 
There is but a trifle left you, when I shall have past away. 
But stay with the old woman now : you cannot have long to stay. 



NORTHERN FARMER. 
OLD STYLE. 



Wheer 'asta bean saw long and mea liggin' 'ere aloan 1 
Noorse ? thoort nowt o' a noorse : whoy, Doctor's abean an' agoan 
Says that I moant 'a naw moor aale : but I beant a fool : 
Git ma my aale, fur I beant a-gooin' to break my rule. 



Doctors, they knaws nowt, fur a says what's nawways true 
Naw soort o' koind o' use to saay the things that a do. 
I've 'ed my point o' aale ivry noight sin' I bean 'ere, 
An' I've 'ed my quart ivry market-noight for f oorty year. 



Parson's a bean loikewoise, an' a sittin' ere o' my bed. 
" The amoighty's a ta'akin o' you to 'issen, my friend," a said, 
An' a towd ma my sins, an's toithe were due, an' I gied it in hond : 
I done moy duty boy 'um, as I 'a done boy the lond. 



Larn'd a ma' bea. I reckons I 'annot sa mooch to larn. 

But a cast oop, thot a did, 'boot Bessy Marris's barne. 

Thaw a knaws I hallus voated wi' Squoire an' choorch an' staate, 

An' i' the woost o' toimes I wur niver agin the ra'ate. 



An' I hallus coom'd to's choorch afoor moy Sally wur dead, 
An' 'eerd 'um a bummin' awaay loike a buzzard-clock 1 ower my 'ead, 
An' I niver knaw'd whot a mean'd but I thowt a 'ad summut to saay, 
An' I thowt a said whot a owt to 'a said an' I coom'd awaay. 



Bessy Marris's barne ! tha knaws she laaid it to mea. 
Mowt a bean, mayhap, for she wur a bad un, shea. 
'Siver, I kep 'um, I kep 'um, my lass, tha mun understond; 
I done moy duty boy 'um as I 'a done boy the lond. 

i Cockchafer. 



178 NORTHERN FARMER. 



VII. 

But Parson a cooms an' a goos, an' a says it easy an' freea 

"The amoighty's a taakin o' you to 'issen, my friend," says 'ea. 

I weant saay men be loiars, thaw summum said it in 'aaste : 

But 'e reads wonn sarmin a weeak, an' I 'a stubb'd Thurnaby waaste 



D'ya moind the waaste, my lass *? naw, naw, tha was not born then ; 

Theer wur a boggle in it, I often 'eerd 'um mysen ; 

Moast loike a butter-bump, 1 fur I 'eerd 'um aboot an' aboot, 

But I stubb'd 'um oop wi' the lot, an' raaved an' rembled 'um oot. 



Reaper's it wur ; fo' they fun 'um theer a-la'aid of 'is faace 
Doon i' the woild 'enemies 2 afoor I coom'd to the plaace. 
Noaks or Thimbleby — to'aner 'ed shot 'um as dead as a naail. 
Noaks wur 'ang'd for it oop at 'soize — but git ma my aale. 



x. 

Dubbut loook at the waaste : theer warn't not f eead for a cow ; 
Nowt at all but bracken an' fuzz, an' loook at it now — 
"Warnt worth nowt a haacre, an' now theer's lots o' feead, 
Fourscoor yows upon it an' some on it doon i' seead. 

XI. 

Nobbut a bit on it's left, an' I mean'd to 'a stubb'd it at fall, 
Done it ta-year I mean'd, an' runn'd plow thruff it an' all, 
If godamoighty an' parson 'ud nobbut let me aloan, 
Mea, wi' haate oonderd haacre o' Squoire's an' lond o' my oan. 



Do godamoighty knaw what a's doing a-taakin' o' mea ? 

I beant wonn as saws 'ere a bean an' yonder a pea ; 

An' Squoire 'ull be sa mad an' all — a' dear a' dear! 

And I 'a managed for Squoire coom Michaelmas thutty year. 



A mowt 'a taaen owd Joanes, as 'ant nor a 'aapoth o' sense, 
Or a mowt 'a taaen young Robins — a niver mended a fence 
But godamoighty a moost taake mea an' taake ma now 
Wi' aaf the cows to cauve an' Thurnaby hoalms to plow ! 



Loook 'ow quoloty smoiles when they seeas ma a passin' boy, 
Says to thessen naw doubt " what a man a bea sewer-loy ! " 
Fur they knaws what I bean to Squoire sin fust a coom'd to the 'AIL; 
I done r.oy duty by Squoire an' I done moy duty boy hall. 

1 Bittern. 2 Anemones. 



NORTHERN FARMER. 179 



xv. 

Squoire's i' Lunnon, an' sumraun I reckons 'ull 'a to wroite, 
For whoa/s to howd the lond ater mea thot muddles ma quoit; 
Sartin-sewer I bea, thot a weant niver give it to Joanes, 
Naw, nor a moant to Robins — a niver rembles the stoans. 



But summun 'ull come ater mea mayhap wi' 'is kittle o' steam 
Huzzin' an' maazin' the blessed fealds wi' the Divil's oan team. 
Sin' I mini doy I mun doy, thaw loife they says is sweet, 
But sin' I mun doy I mun doy, for I couldn abear to see it. 

XVII. 

What atta stannin' theer fur, an' doesn bring ma the aale ? 
Doctor's a 'toattler, lass, an a's hallus i' the owd taale ; 
I weant break rules fur Doctor, a knaws naw moor nor a floy ; 
Git ma my aale I tell tha, an' if I mun doy I mun doy. 



NORTHERN FARMER. 

NEW STYLE. 



Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awaay ? 
Proputty, proputty, proputty — that's what I 'ears 'em saay. 
Proputty, proputty, proputty — Sam, thou's an ass for thy paaYns : 
Theer's moor sense i' one o' 'is legs nor in all thy braams. 

ii. « 

Woa, — theer's a craw to pluck wi' tha, Sam : yon's parson's 'ouse — 
Dosn't thou knaw that a man mun be eather a man or a mouse 1 
Time to think on it then ; for thou'll be twenty to weeak. 1 
Proputty, proputty — woa then woa — let ma 'ear myse'n speak. 

in. 
Me an' thy muther, Sammy, 'as bean a-talkin' o' thee ; 
Thou's bean talkin' to muther, an' she bean a teLin' it me. 
Thou'll not marry for munny — thou's sweet upo' parson's lass — 
Noa — thou'll marry for luvv — an' we boath on us thinks tha an ass. 



Seea'd her todaay goa by — Saaint's daay — they was ringing the bells. 
She's a beauty thou thinks — an' soa is scoors o' gells, 
Them as 'as munny an' all — wot's a beauty ? — the flower as blaws. 
But proputty, proputty sticks, an' proputty, proputty graws. 

1 This week. 



180 NORTHERN FARMER. 



v. 

Do'ant be stunt : 1 taake time : I knaws what maakes tha sa mad. 
Warn't I craazed fur the lasses mysen when I wur a lad 1 
But I knaw'd a Quaaker feller as often 'as towd ma this: 
" Doant thou marry for munny, but goa wheer munny is ! " 



An' I went wheer munny war : an' thy muther coom to 'and, 
Wi' lots o' munny laa'id by, an' a nicetish bit o' land. 
Mctaybe she warn't a beauty — I niver giv it a thowt — 
But warn't she as good to cuddle an' kiss as a lass as 'ant nowt ? 

VII. 

Parson's lass 'ant nowt, an' she weant 'a nowt when 'e's dead, 
Mun be a guvness, lad, or summut, and addle 2 her bread : 
Why ? fur 'e's nobbut a curate, an' weant niver git naw 'igher ; 
An' 'e maade the bed as 'e liars on afoor 'e coom'd to the shire. 



An thin 'e coom'd to the parish wi' lots o' Varsity debt, 
Stook to his taa'il they did, an' 'e 'ant got shut on 'em yet. 
An' 'e ligs on 'is back i' the grip, wi' noan to lend 'im a shove, 
Woorse nor a far-welter'd 3 yowe : fur, Sammy, 'e married fur luvv. 

IX. 

Luvv ? what's luvv ? thou can luvv thy lass an' 'er munny too, 
Maakin' 'em goa togither as they've good right to do. 



Could'n I luvv thy muther by cause o' 'er munny laa'id by ? 
Naay — fur I luvv'd 'er a vast sight moor fur it : reason why. 

x. 

Ay an' thy muther says thou wants to marry the lass, 
Cooms of a gentleman burn : an' we boath on us thinks tha an ass. 
Woa then, proputty, wiltha 1 — an ass as near as mays nowt 4 — 
Woa then, wiltha % dangtha ! — the bees is as fell as owt. 5 

XI. 

Break me a bit o' the esh for his 'ead, lad, out o' the fence ! 
Gentleman burn ! what's gentleman burn ? is it shillins an' pence '{ 
Proputty, proputty 's ivry thing 'ere, an', Sammy, I'm blest 
If it isn't the saame oop yonder, fur them as 'as it's the best. 



Tis'n them as 'as munny as breaks into 'ouses an' steals, 
Them as 'as coats to their backs an' taakes their regular meals. 
Noa, but it's them as niver knaws wheer a meal's to be 'ad. 
Taake my word for it, Sammy, the poor in a loomp is bad. 

1 Obstinate. 2 Earn. 

3 Or fow-welter'd, — said of a sheep lying on its back in the furrow. 

* Makes nothing. 6 ^he flies are as fierce as anything. 



THE DAISY. 



181 



Them or thir feythers, tha sees, mun 'a bean a laazy lot, 
Fur work mun 'a gone to the gittin' whiniver munny was got. 
Eeyther 'ad ammost nowt; leastways 'is munny was 'id. 
But 'e tued an' moil'd 'issen dead, an 'e died a good un, 'e did. 



Loook thou theer wheer Wrigglesby beck cooms out by the 
Feyther run oop to the farm, an' I runs oop to the mill; 
An' I'll run oop* to the brig, an' that thou'll live to see ; 
And if thou marries a good un I'll leave the land to thee. 



Thim's my noaiions, Sammy, wheerby I means to stick ; 
But if thou marries a bad un, I'll leave the land to Dick. — 
Coom oop, proputty, proputty — that's what I 'ears 'im saay 
Proputty, proputty, proputty — canter an' canter awaay 



THE DAISY. 

WRITTEN AT EDINBURGH. 

O love, what hours were thine and 

mine, 
In lands of palm and southern pine ; 

In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, 
Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine. 

What Roman strength Turbia show'd 
In ruin, by the mountain road ; 

How like a gem, beneath, the city 
Of little Monaco, basking, glow'd. 

How richly down the rocky dell 
The torrent vineyard streaming fell 

To meet the sun and sunny waters, 
That only heaved with a summer swell. 

What slender campanili grew 
By bays, the peacock's neck in hue ; 
Where, here and there, on sandy 
beaches 
A milky-bell'd amaryllis blew. 

How young Columbus seem'd to rove, 
Yet present in his natal grove, 

Now watching high on mountain 
cornice, 
And steering, now, from a purple cove, 



Now pacing mute by ocean's rim ; 
Till, in a narrow street and dim, 

I stay'd the wheels at Cogoletto, 
And drank, and loyally drank to him. 

Nor knew we well what pleased us most, 
Not the dipt palm of which they boast ; 

But distant color, happy hamlet, 
A moulder'd citadel on the coast, 

Or tower, or high hill-convent, seen 
A light amid its olTves green ; 

Or olive-hoary cape in ocean ; 
Or rosy blossom in hot ravine, 

Where oleanders flush'd the bed 
Of silent torrents, gravel-spread ; 

And, crossing, oft we saw the glisten 
Of ice, far up on a mountain head. 

We loved that hall, tho' white and cold 
Those niched shapes of noble mould, 
A princely people's awful princes, 
The grave, severe Genovese of old. 

At Florence too what golden hours, 
In those long galleries, were ours ; 

What drives about the fresh Cascine, 
Or walks in Boboli's ducal bowers. 



182 



TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE. 



In bright vignettes, and each com- 
plete, 
Of tower or duomo, sunny-sweet, 

Or palace, how the city glitter'd, 
Thro' cypress avenues, at our feet. 

But when we crost the Lombard plain 
Remember what a plague of rain ; 

Of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma ; 
At Lodi, rain, Piacenza, rain. 

And stern and sad (so rare the smiles 
Of sunlight) look'd the Lombard piles ; 

Porch-pillars on the lion resting, 
And sombre, old, colonnaded aisles. 

Milan, the chanting quires, 
The giant windows' blazon'd fires, 

The height, the space, the gloom, 
the glory ! 
A mount of marble, a hundred spires ! 

1 climb'd the roofs at break of day ; 
Sun-smitten Alps before me lay. 

I stood among the silent statues, 
And statued pinnacles, mute as they. 

How f aintly-flush'd, how phantom-fair, 
Was Monte Rosa, hanging there 
A thousand shadowy-pencill'd val- 
leys 
And snowy dells in a golden air. 

Remember how we came at last 
To Como ; shower and storm and blast 
Had blown the lake beyond his limit, 
And all was flooded ; and how we past 

From Como, when the light was gray, 
And in my head, for half the day, 

The rich Virgilian rustic measure 
Of Lari Maxume, all the way, 

Like ballad-burthen music, kept, 
As on The Lariano crept 

To that fair port below the castle 
Of Queen Theodolind, where we slept ; 

Or hardly slept, but watch'd awake 
A cypress in the moonlight shake, 
The moonlight touching o'er a 
terrace 
One tall Agave above the lake. 



"What more 1 we took our last adieu, 
And up the snowy Splugen drew, 
But ere we reach'd the highest 
summit 
I pluck'd a daisy, I gave it you. 

It told of England then to me, 
And now it tells of Italy. 

O love, we two shall go no longer 
To lands of summer across the sea; 

So dear a life your arms enfold 
Whose crying is a cry for gold : 

Yet here to-night in this dark city, 
When ill and weary, alone and cold, 

I found, tho' crush'd to hard and dry, 
This nursling of another sky 

Still in the little book you lent me, 
And where you tenderly laid it by : 

And I forgot the clouded Forth, 
The gloom that saddens Heaven and 
Earth, 
The bitter east, the misty summer 
And gray metropolis of the North. 

Perchance, to lull the throbs of pain, 
Perchance, to charm a vacant brain, 
Perchance, to dream you still be- 
side me, 
My fancy fled to the South again. 



TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE. 

JANUARY, 1854. 
Come, when no graver cares employ, 
Godfather, come and see your boy : 

Your presence will be sun in winter, 
Making the little one leap for joy. 

For, being of that honest few, 
Who give the Fiend himself his due, 
Should eighty-thousand college- 
councils 
Thunder " Anathema," friend, at you ; 

Should all our churchmen foam in spite 
At you, so careful of the right, 

Yet one lay-hearth would give you 
welcome 
(Take it and come) to the Isle of 
Wight ; 



WILL. 



183 



Where, far from noise and smoke of 

town, 
I watch the twilight falling brown 

All round a careless-order'd garden 
Close to the ridge of a noble down. 

You'll have no scandal while you dine, 
But honest talk and wholesome wine, 

And only hear the magpie gossip 
Garrulous under a roof of pine : 

For groves of pine on either hand, 
To break the blast of winter, stand ; 

And further on, the hoary Channel 
Tumbles a billow on chalk and sand ; 

Where, if below the milky steep 
Some ship of battle slowly creep, 
And on thro' zones of light and 
shadow 
Glimmer away to the lonely deep, 

We might discuss the Northern sin 
Which made a selfish war begin ; 
Dispute the claims, arrange the 
chances ; 
Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win : 

Or whether war's avenging rod 
Shall lash all Europe into blood ; 
Till you should turn to dearer 
matters, 
Dear to the man that is dear to God ; 

How best to help the slender store, 
How mend the dwellings, of the poor; 

How gain in life, as life advances, 
Valor and charity more and more. 

Come, Maurice, come : the lawn as yet 
Is hoar with rime, or spongy-wet ; 
But when the wreath of March has 
blossom'd, 
Crocus, anemone, violet, 

Or later, pay one visit here, 
For those are few we hold as dear ; 
Nor pay but one, but come for 
many, 
Many and many a happy year. 



WILL. 



O well for him whose will is strong ! 

He suffers, but he will not suffer long ; 

He suffers, but he cannot suffer 
wrong : 

For him nor moves the loud world's 
random mock, 

Nor all Calamity's hugest waves con- 
found, 

Who seems a promontory of rock, 

That, compass'd round with turbulent 
sound, 

In middle ocean meets the surging 
shock, 

Tempest-buffeted, citadel-crown'd. 

ii. 

But ill for him who, bettering not 
with time, 

Corrupts the strength of heaven- 
descended Will, 

And ever weaker grows thro' acted 
crime, 

Or seeming-genial venial fault, 

Recurring and suggesting still ! 

He seems as one whose footsteps 
halt, 

Toiling in immeasurable sand, 

And o'er a weary sultry land, 

Far beneath a blazing vault, 

Sown in a wrinkle in the monstrous 
hill, 

The city sparkles like a grain of salt. 



IN THE VALLEY OF 
CAUTERETZ. 

All along the valley, stream that 
flashest white, 

Deepening thy voice with the deepen- 
ing of the night, 

All along the valley, where thy waters 
flow, 

I walk'd with one I loved two and 
thirty years ago. 

All along the valley, while 1 walk'd 
to-day, 



184 



IN THE GARDEN AT SWAINS TON. 



The two and thirty years were a mist 

that rolls away ; 
For all along the valley, down thy 

rocky bed, 
Thy living voice to me was as the 

voice of the dead, 
And all along the valley, by rock and 

cave and tree, 
The voice of the dead was a living 

voice to me. 



IN THE GARDEN AT 
SWAINSTON. 

Nightingales warbled without, 
Within was weeping for thee : 

Shadows of three dead men 
Walk'd in the walks with me, 
Shadows of three dead men and 
thou wast one of the three. 

Nightingales sang in his woods : 
The Master was far away : 

Nightingales warbled and sang 
Of a passion that lasts but a day ; 
Still in the house in his coffin the 
Prince of courtesy lay. 

Two dead men have I known 
In courtesy like to thee : 

Two dead men have I loved 
With a love that ever will be : 
Three dead men have I loved, and 
thou art last of the three. 



THE FLOWER. 

Once in a golden hour 
I cast to earth a seed. 

Up there came a flower, 
The people said, a weed. 

To and fro they went 
Thro' my garden-bower, 

And muttering discontent 
Cursed me and my flower. 

Then it grew so tall 

It wore a crown of light, 

But thieves from o'er the wall 
Stole the seed by night. 



Sow'd it far and wide 

By every town and tower, 

Till all the people cried, 
" Splendid is the flower." 

Read my little fable : 
He that runs may read. 

Most can raise the flowers now, 
For all have got the seed. 

And some are pretty enough, 
And some are poor indeed ; 

And now again the people 
Call it but a weed. 



REQUIESCAT. 

Fair is her cottage in its place, 
Where yon broad water sweetly, 
slowly glides. 

It sees itself from thatch to base 
Dream in the sliding tides. 

And fairer she, but ah how soon to 
die ! 
Her quiet dream of life this hour 
may cease. 
Her peaceful being slowly passes by 
To some more perfect peace. 






THE SAILOR BOY. 

He rose at dawn and, fired with hope, 

Shot o'er the seething harbor-bar, 
And reach'd the ship and caught the 

rope, 
And whistled to the morning star. 

And while he whistled long and loud 
He heard a tierce mermaiden cry, 

"O boy, tho' thou art young and 
proud, 
I see the place where thou wilt lie. 

" The sands and yeasty surges mix 
In caves about the dreary bay, 

And on thy ribs the limpet sticks, 
And in thy heart the scrawl shall 
play." 



THE ISLET. 



185 



" Fool," he answer'd, " death is sure 
To those that stay and those that 
roam, 

But I will nevermore endure 

To sit with empty hands at home. 

" My mother clings about my neck, 
My sisters crying, ' Stay for shame ; ' 

My father raves of death and wreck, 
They are all to blame, they are all 
to blame. 

" God help me ! save I take my part 
Of danger on the roaring sea, 

A devil rises in my heart, 

Far worse than any death to me." 



THE ISLET. 

" Whither, O whither, love, shall we 

go, 
For a score of sweet little summers or 

so? " 
The sweet little wife of the singer said, 
On the day that f ollow'd the day she 

was wed, 
" Whither, O whither, love, shall we 

go ? " 
And the singer shaking his curly head 
Turn'd as he sat, and struck the keys 
There at his right with a sudden crash, 
Singing, " And shall it be over the seas 
With a crew that is neither rude nor 

rash, 
But a bevy of Eroses apple-cheek'd, 
In a shallop of crystal ivory-beak'd, 
With a satin sail of a ruby glow, 
To a sweet little Eden on earth that I 

know, 
A mountain islet pointed and peak'd; 
Waves on a diamond shingle dash, 
Cataract brooks to the ocean run, 
Fairily-delicate palaces shine 
Mixt with myrtle and clad with vine, 
And overstream'd and silvery-streak'd 
With many a rivulet high against the 

Sun 
The facets of the glorious mountain 

flash 
Above the valleys of palm and pine." 



" Thither, thither, love, let us go." 

" No, no, no ! i 

For in all that exquisite isle, my dear, 

There is but one bird with a musical 

throat, 
And his compass is but of a single 

note, 
That it makes one weary to hear." 

" Mock me not! mock me not! love s 
let us go." 

" No, love, no. 

For the bud ever breaks into bloom 

on the tree, 
And a storm never wakes on the lonely 

sea, 
And a worm is there in the lonel} 

wood, 
That pierces the liver and blackens 

the blood ; 
And makes it a sorrow to be." 



CHILD-SONGS. 



THE CITY CHILD. 

Dainty little maiden, whither would 
you wander ? 
Whither from this pretty home, the 
home where mother dwells ? 

" Far and far away," said the dainty 
little maiden, 

"All among the gardens, auriculas, 
anemones, 
Roses and lilies and Canterbury- 
bells." 

Dainty little maiden, whither would 
you wander 1 
Whither from this pretty house, 
this city-house of ours ? 

" Far and far away," said the dainty 
little maiden, 

" All among the meadows, the clover 
and the clematis, 
Daisies and kingcups and honey- 
suckle-flowers." 



186 



MINNIE AND WINNIE. 



11. 



MINNIE AND WINNIE. 

Minnie and Winnie 

Slept in a shell. 
Sleep, little ladies ! 

And they slept well. 

Pink was the shell within. 

Silver without ; 
Sounds of the grea* s<*a 

Wander'd about. 

Sleep, little ladie? ! 

Wake not soon ! 
Echo on echo 

Dies to the moon. 

Two bright stars 

Peep'd into the shell. 

" What are they dreaming of ? 
Who can tell 1 " 

Started a green linnet 

Out of the croft; 
Wake, little ladies, 

The sun is aloft ! 



THE SPITEFUL LETTER, 

Heke, it is here, the close of the year, 
And with it a spiteful letter. 

My name in song has done him much 
wrong, 
For himself has done much better. 

little bard, is your lot so hard, 
If men neglect your pages ? 

1 think not much of yours or of mine, 

I hear the roll of the ages. 

Rhymes and rhymes in the range of 
the times ! 

Are mine for the moment stronger? 
Yet hate me not, but abide your lot, 

I last but a moment longer. 

This faded leaf, our names are as 
brief ; 
What room is left for a hater ? 



Yet the yellow leaf hates the greener 
leaf, 
For it hangs one moment later. 

Greater than I — is that your cry ? 

And men will live to see it. 
Well — if it be so — so it is, you know ; 

And if it be so, so be it. 

Brief, brief is a summer leaf, 
But this is the time of hollies. 

O hollies and ivies and evergreens, 
How I hate the spites and the 
follies ! 



LITERARY SQUABBLES. 

Ah God ! the petty fools of rhyme 
That shriek and sweat in pigmy wars 

Before the stony face of Time, 
And look'd at by the silent stars : 

Who hate each other for a song, 
And do their little best to bite 

And pinch their brethren in the throng, 
And scratch the very dead for spite : 

And strain to make an inch of room 
For their sweet selves, and cannot 
hear 
The sullen Lethe rolling doom 

On them and theirs and all things 
here : 

When one small touch of Charity 
Could lift them nearer God-like state 

Than if the crowned Orb should cry 
Like those who cried Diana great : 

And I too, talk, and lose the touch 
I talk of. Surely, after all, 

The noblest answer unto such 

Is perfect stillness when they brawl. 



THE VICTIM. 



A plague upon the people fell, 
A famine after laid them low, 
Then thorpe and byre arose in fire, 



THE VICTIM. 



187 



For on them brake the sudden foe ; 
So thick they died the people cried, 
"The Gods are moved against the 
land." 
The Priest in horror about his altar 
To Thor and Odin lifted a hand • 
" Help us from famine 
And plague and strife ! 
What would you have of us ? 
Human life ? 
Were it our nearest, 
Were it our dearest, 
(Answer, O answer) 
We give you his life." 



But still the f oeman spoil'd and burn'd, 
And cattle died, and deer in wood, 
And bird in air, and fishes turn'd 

And whiten'd all the rolling flood ; 
And dead men lay all over the way, 
Or down in a furrow scathed with 
flame: 
And ever and aye the Priesthood 
moan'd, 
Till at last it seem'd that an answer 
came. 
"The King is happy 
In child and wife ; 
Take you his dearest, 
Give us a life." 



The Priest went out by heath and hill ; 
The King was hunting in the wild ; 
They found the mother sitting still ; 
She cast her arms about the child. 
The child was only eight summers old, 
His beauty still with his years in- 
creased, 
His face was ruddy, his hair was gold, 
He seem'd a victim due to the priest. 
The Priest beheld him, 
And cried with joy, 
" The Gods have answer'd : 
We give them the boy." 



The King return'd from out the wild, 
He bore but little game in hand ; 



The mother said, "They have taken 
the child 
To spill his blood and heal the 
land : 
The land is sick, the people diseased, 
And blight and famine on all the 
lea: 
The holy Gods, they must be appeased, 
So I pray you tell the truth to me. 
They have taken our son, 
They will have his life. 
Is he your dearest ? 
Or I, the wife 1 " 



The King bent low, with hand on 
brow, 
He stay'd his arms upon his knee : 
" O wife, what use to answer now ? 
For now the Priest has judged for 
me." 
The King was shaken with holy 
fear; 
"The Gods," he said, "would have 
chosen well ; 
Yet both are near, and both are dear, 
And which the dearest I cannot tell!" 
But the Priest was happy, 
His victim won : 
" We have his dearest, 
His only son ! " 



The rites prepared, the victim bared, 
The knife uprising toward the 
blow 
To the altar-stone she sprang alone, 

" Me, not my darling, no ! " 
He caught her away with a sudden 
cry; 
Suddenly from him brake his wife, 
And shrieking " / am his dearest, I — 
I am his dearest ! " rush'd on the 
knife. 
And the Priest was happy, 
"0, Father Odin, 
We give you a life. 
Which was his nearest 1 
Who was his dearest % 
The Gods have answer'd ; 
We give them the wife ! " 



188 WAGES. 



WAGES. 

Glory of warrior, glory of orator, glory of song, 
Paid with a voice flying by to be lost on an endless sea — 

Glory of Virtue, to fight, to struggle, to right the wrong — 
Nay, but she aim'd not at glory, no lover of glory she : 

Give her the glory of going on, and still to be. 

The wages of sin is death ; if the wages of Virtue be dust, 

Would she have heart to endure for the life of the worm and the fly 

She desires no isles of the blest, no quiet seats of the just, 
To rest in a golden grove, or to bask in a summer sky : 

Give her the wages of going on, and not to die. 



THE HIGHER PANTHEISM. 

The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and the plains — 
Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him who reigns ? 

Is not the Vision He ? tho' He be not that which He seems ? 
Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams ? 

Earth, these solid stars, this weight of body and limb, 
Are they not sign and symbol of thy division from Him ? 

Dark is the world to thee : thyself art the reason why ; 

For is He not all but thou, that hast power to feel " I am I " ? 

Glory about thee, without thee ; and thou fulfillest thy doom 
Making Him broken gleams, and a stifled splendor and gloom. 

Speak to Him thou for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit can meet- 
Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet. 

God is law, say the wise ; O Soul, and let us rejoice, 
For if He thunder by law the thunder is yet His voice. 

Law is God, say some : no God at all, says the fool ; 

For all we have power to see is a straight staff bent in a pool ; 

And the ear of man cannot hear, and the eye of man cannot see, 
But if we could see and hear, this Vision — were it not He ? 



THE VOICE AND THE PEAK. 



i. 

The voice and the Peak 
Far over summit and lawn, 

The lone glow and long roar 

Green-rushing from the rosy thrones 
of dawn ! 



All night have I heard the voice 
Rave over the rocky bar, 

But thou wert silent in heaven, 
Above thee glided the star. 



A DEDICATION. 



189 



Hast thou no voice, O Peak, 
That standest high above all ? 

" I am the voice of the Peak, 
I roar and rave for I fall. 



" A thousand voices go 

To North, South, East, and West 
They leave the heights and a: 
troubled, 

And moan and sink to their rest. 



" The fields are fair beside them, 
The chestnut towers in his bloom ; 

But they — they feel the desire of the 
deep — 
Fall, and follow their doom. 



" The deep has power on the height, 
And the height has power on the 
deep ; 

They are raised for ever and ever, 
And sink again into sleep." 



Not raised for ever and ever, 
But when their cycle is o'er, 

The valley, the voice, the peak, the 
star 
Pass, and are found no more. 



The Peak is high and flush'd 
At his highest with sunrise fire ; 

The Peak is high, and the stars are 
high, 
And the thought of a man is higher. 



IX. 

A deep below the deep, 

And a height beyond the height ! 
Oar hearing is not hearing, 

And our seeing is not sight. 



The voice and the Peak 
Far into heaven withdrawn, 

The lone glow and long roar 

Green-rushing from the rosy thrones 
of dawn ! 



Flower in the crannied wall, 

I pluck you out of the crannies, 

I hold you here, root and all, in my 

hand, 
Little flower — but if I could under- 
stand 
What you are, root and all, and all in 

all, 
I should know what God and man is. 



A DEDICATION. 

Dear, near and true — no truer Time 

himself 
Can prove you, tho' he make you ever- 
more 
Dearer and nearer, as the rapid of 

life 
Shoots to the fall — take this and pray 

that he 
Who wrote it, honoring. your sweet 

faith in him, 
May trust himself; and after praise 

and scorn, 
As one who feels the immeasurable 

world, 
Attain the wise indifference of the 

wise; 
And after Autumn past — if left to 

pass 
His autumn into seeming-leafless 

days — 
Draw toward the long frost and long- 
est night, 
Wearing his wisdom lightly, like the 

fruit 
Which in our winter woodland looks 

a flower. 1 

1 The fruit of the Spindle-tree {Euony 
mus Europceus). 



190 BO AD ICE A. 

EXPERIMENTS. 

BOADICEA. 

While about the shore of Mona those Neronian legionaries 
Burnt and broke the grove and altar of the Druid and Druidess, 
Ear in the East Boadicea, standing loftily charioted, 
Mad and maddening all that heard her in her fierce volubility, 
Girt by half the tribes of Britain, near the colony Camulodune, 
Yell'd and shriek'd between her daughters o'er a wild confederacy. 

" They that scorn the tribes and call us Britain's barbarous populaces, 
Did they hear me, would they listen, did they pity me supplicating ? 
Shall I heed them in their anguish ? shall I brook to be supplicated ? 
Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant ! 
Must their ever-ravening eagle's beak and talon annihilate us ? 
Tear the noble heart of Britain, leave it gorily quivering ? 
Bark an answer, Britain's raven ! bark and blacken innumerable, 
Blacken round the Roman carrion, make the carcase a skeleton, 
Kite and kestrel, wolf and wolfkin, from the wilderness, wallow in it, 
Till the face of Bel be brighten'd, Taranis be propitiated. 
Lo their colony half-defended ! low their colony, Camulodune ! 
There the horde of Roman robbers mock at a barbarous adversary. 
There the hive of Roman liars worship a gluttonous emperor-idiot. 
Such is Rome, and this her deity : hear it, Spirit of Cassivelaun ! 

" Hear it, Gods ! the Gods have heard it, O Icenian, Coritanian ! 
Doubt not ye the Gods have answer'd, Catieuchlanian, Trinobant. 
These have told us all their anger in miraculous utterances, 
Thunder, a flying fire in heaven, a murmur heard aerially, 
Phantom sound of blows descending, moan of an enemy massacred, 
Phantom wail of women and children, multitudinous agonies. 
Bloodily flow'd the Tamesa rolling phantom bodies of horses and men ; 
Tlien a phantom colony smoulder'd on the refluent estuary ; 
Lastly yonder yester-even, suddenly giddily tottering — 
There was one who watch'd and told me — down their statue of Victory fell. 
Lo their precious Roman bantling, lo the colony Camulodune, 
Shall we teach it a Roman lesson ? shall we care to be pitiful ? 
Shall we deal with it as an infant ? shall we dandle it amorously ? 

" Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant ! 
While I roved about the forest, long and bitterly meditating, 
There I heard them in the darkness, at the mystical ceremony, 
Loosely robed in flying raiment, sang the terrible prophetesses, 
' Fear not, isle of blowing woodland, isle of silvery parapets ! 
Tho' the Roman eagle shadow thee, tho' the gathering enemy narrow thee, 
Thou shalt wax and he shall dwindle, thou shalt be the mighty one yet! 



BO AD ICE A. 191 



Thine the liberty, thine the glory, thine the deeds to be celebrated, 

Thine the myriad-rolling ocean, light and shadow illimitable, 

Thine the lands of lasting summer, many-blossoming Paradises, 

Thine the North and thine the South and thine the battle-thunder of God. 5 

So they chanted : how shall Britain light upon auguries happier % 

So they chanted in the darkness, and there cometh a victory now. • 

" Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant ! 
Me the wife of rich Prasutagus, me the lover of liberty, 
Me they seized and me they tortured, me they lash'd and humiliated, 
Me the sport of ribald Veterans, mine of ruffian violators ! 
See they sit, they hide their faces, miserable in ignominy ! 
Wherefore in me burns an anger, not by blood to be satiated. 
Lo the palaces and the temple, lo the colony Camulodiine ! 
There they ruled, and thence they wasted all the flourishing territory, 
Thither at their will they haled the yellow-ringleted Britoness — 
Bloodily, bloodily fall the battle-axe, unexhausted, inexorable. 
Shout Icenian, Catieuchlanian, shout Coritanian, Trinobant, 
Till the victim hear within and yearn to hurry precipitously 
Like the leaf in a roaring whirlwind, like the smoke in a hurricane whirl'd. 
Lo the colony, there they rioted in the city of Ciinobelme ! 
There they drank in cups of emerald, there at tables of ebony lay, 
Kolling on their purple couches in their tender effeminacy. 
There they dwelt and there they rioted ; there — there — they dwell no more 
Burst the gates, and burn the palaces, break the works of the statuary, 
Take the hoary Roman head and shatter it, hold it abominable, 
Cut the Roman boy to pieces in his lust and voluptuousness, 
Lash the maiden into swooning, me they lash'd and humiliated, 
Chop the breasts from off the mother, dash the brains of the little one out, 
Up my Britons, on my chariot, on my chargers, trample them under us." 

So the Queen Boadicea, standing loftily charioted, 
Brandishing in her hand a dart and rolling glances lioness-like, 
Yell'd and shriek'd between her daughters in her fierce volubility. 
Till her people all around the royal chariot agitated, 
Madly dash'd the darts together, writhing barbarous lineaments, 
Made the noise of frosty woodlands, when they shiver in January, 
Roar'd as when the roaring breakers boom and blanch on the precipices 
Yell'd as when the winds of winter tear an oak on a promontory. 
So the silent colony hearing her tumultuous adversaries 
Clash the darts and on the buckler beat with rapid unanimous hand, 
Thought on all her evil tyrannies, all her pitiless avarice, 
Till she felt the heart within her fall and flutter tremulously, 
Then her pulses at the clamoring of her enemy fainted away. 
Out of evil evil flourishes, out of tyranny tyranny buds. 
Ran the land with Roman slaughter, multitudinous agonies. 
Perish'd many a maid and matron, many a valorous legionary, 
Fell the colony, city, and citadel, London, Verulam, Camulodiine. 



192 



TRANSLATION OF THE ILIAD. 



IN QUANTITY. 

ON TRANSLATIONS OF HOMER. 

Hexameters and Pentameters. 

These lame hexameters the strong-wing'd music of Homer ! 

No — but a most burlesque barbarous experiment. 
When was a harsher sound ever heard, ye Muses, in England ? 

When did a frog coarser croak upon our Helicon ? 
Hexameters no worse than daring Germany gave us, 
Barbarous experiment, barbarous hexameters. 



MILTON. 

Alcaics. 
O mighty-mouth'd inventor of har- 
monies, 
O skill'd to sing of Time or Eternity, 
God-gifted organ-voice of England, 
Milton, a name to resound for 
ages ; 
Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel, 
Starr'd from Jehovah's gorgeous ar- 
mories, 
Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean 
Rings to the roar of an angel on- 
set — 
Me rather all that bowery loneliness, 
The brooks of Eden mazily murmur- 
ing, 
And bloom profuse and cedar arches 
Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean, 
Where some refulgent sunset of India 
Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean 
isle, 
And crimson-hued the stately palm- 
woods 
Whisper in odorous heights of 



Hendecasyllabics. 
O you chorus of indolent reviewers, 
Irresponsible, indolent reviewers, 
Look, I come to the test, a tiny poem 
All composed in a metre of Catullus 
All in quantity, careful of my motion, 
Like the skater on ice that hardly 

bears him, 
Lest I fall unawares before the people, 



Waking laughter in indolent re- 
viewers. 

Should I flounder awhile without a 
tumble 

Thro' this metrification of Catullus, 

They should speak to me not without 
a welcome, 

All that chorus of indolent reviewers. 

Hard, hard, hard is it, only not to 
tumble, 

So fantastical is the dainty metre. 

Wherefore slight me not wholly, nor 
believe me 

Too presumptuous, indolent reviewers, 

O blatant Magazines, regard me 
rather — 

Since I blush to belaud myself a mo- 
ment — 

As some rare little rose, a piece of in- 
most 

Horticultural art, or half coquette-like 

Maiden, not to be greeted unbenignly. 



SPECIMEN OF A TRANSLA- 
TION OF THE ILIAD IN 
BLANK VERSE. 



So Hector spake 

applause ; 
Then loosed their sweating 

from the yoke, 
And each beside his chariot bound his 



the Trojans roar'd 
horses 



And oxen from the city, and goodly 
sheep 



THE WINDOW. 



193 



In haste they drove, and honey-hearted 

wine 
And bread from out the houses 

brought, and heap'd 
Their firewood, and the winds from off 

the plain 
Roll'd the rich vapor far into the 

heaven. 
And these all night upon the bridge 1 

of war 
Sat glorying ; many a fire before them 

blazed : 
As when in heaven the stars about the 

moon 
Look beautiful, when all the winds are 

laid, 
And every height comes out, and jut- 
ting peak 

1 Or ridge. 



And valley, and the immeasurable 

heavens 
Break open to their highest, and all 

the stars 
Shine, and the Shepherd gladdens in 

his heart : 
So many a fire between the ships and 

stream 
Of Xanthus blazed before the towers 

of Troy, 
A thousand on the plain; and close 

by each 
Sat fifty in the blaze of burning 

fire; 
And eating hoary grain and pulse the 

steeds, 
Fixt by their cars, waited the golden 

dawn. Iliad vm. 542-561. 



THE WINDOW; 

OR, THE SONG OF THE WRENS. 

Four years ago Mr. Sullivan requested me to write a little song-cycle, German fashion, for 
him to exercise his art upon. He had been very successful in setting such old songs as " Or- 
pheus with his lute," and I drest up for him, partly in the old style, a puppet, whose almost 
only merit is, perhaps, that it can dance to Mr. Sullivan's instrument. I am sorry that my 
four-year-old puppet should have to dance at all in the dark shadow of these days; but the 
music is now completed, and I am bound by my promise. 

December, 1870. A. Tennyson. 

THE WINDOW. 



ON THE HILL. 

The lights and shadows fly ! 
Yonder it brightens and darkens down 
on the plain. 
A jewel, a jewel dear to a lover's 
eye! 
Oh is it the brook, or a pool, or her 
window pane, 
When the winds are up in the 
morning ? 

Clouds that are racing above, 
And winds and lights and shadows 
that cannot be still, 
All running on one way to the home 
of my love, 
You are all running on, and I stand 
on the slope of the hill, 
And the winds are up in the morn- 
ing ! 



Follow, follow the chase ! 
And my thoughts are as quick and as 
quick, ever on, on, on. 
lights, are you flying over her 
sweet little face ? 
And my heart is there before you are 
come, and gone, 
When the winds are up in the 
mo rnin": ! 



Follow them down the slope ! 
And I follow them down to the window- 
pane of my dear, 
And it brightens and darkens and 
brightens like my hope, 
And it darkens and brightens and 
darkens like my fear, 
And the winds are up in the 
morning. 



194 



THE WINDOW. 



AT THE WINDOW. 

Vine, vine and eglantine, 
Clasp her window, trail and twine ! 
Eose, rose and clematis, 
Trail and twine and clasp and kiss, 
Kiss, kiss ; and make her a bower 
All of flowers, and drop me a flower, 
Drop me a flower. 

Vine, vine and eglantine, 
Cannot a flower, a flower, be mine 1 
Rose, rose and clematis, 
Drop me a flower, a flower, to kiss, 
Kiss, kiss — and out of her bower 
All of flowers, a flower, a flower, 
Dropt, a flower. 

GONE. 

Gone! 

Gone, till the end of the year, 

Gone, and the light gone with her, and 

left me in shadow here ! 
Gone — flitted away, 
Taken the stars from the night and 

the sun from the day ! 
Gone, and a cloud in my heart, and a 

storm in the air ! 
Flown to the east or the west, flitted 

I know not where ! 
Down in the south is a flash and a 

groan : she is there ! she is 

there ! 



The frost is here, 
And fuel is dear, 
And woods are sear, 
And fires burn clear, 
And frost is here 

And has bitten the heel of the going 
year. 

Bite, frost, bite ! 

You roll up away from the light 

The blue wood-louse, and the plump 

dormouse, 
And the bees are stilPd, and the flies 

are kilPd, 
And you bite far into the heart of the 

house, 
But not into mine. 



Bite, frost, bite ! 

The woods are all the searer, 

The fuel is all the dearer, 

The fires are all the clearer, 

My spring is all the nearer, 

You have bitten into the heart of the 

earth, 
But not into mine. 

SPRING. 

Birds' love and birds' song 

Flying here and there, 
Birds' song and birds' love, 

And you with gold for hair ! 
Birds' song and birds' love, 

Passing with the weather, 
Men's song and men's love, 

To love once and for ever. 

Men's love and birds' love, 

And women's love and men's ! 
And you my wren with a crown of 
gold, 

You my queen of the wrens ! 
You the queen of the wrens — 

We'll be birds of a feather, 
I'll be King of the Queen of the 
wrens, 

And all in a nest together. 

THE LETTER. 

Where is another sweet as my sweet, 
Fine of the fine, and shy of the shy ? 

Fine little hands, fine little feet — 
Dewy blue eye. 

Shall I write to her 1 shall I go .? 
Ask her to marry me by and by 1 

Somebody said that she'd say no; 
Somebody knows that she'll say ay 

Ay or no, if ask'd to her face ? 

Ay or no, from shy of the shy ? 
Go," little letter, apace, apace, 

Fly; 
Fly to the light in the valley below — 

Tell my wish to her dewy blue eye : 
Somebody said that she'd say no ; 

Somebody knows that she'll say ay ! 

NO ANSWER. 

The mist and the rain, the mist and 
the rain ! 



THE WINDOW. 



195 



Is it ay or no ? is it ay or no ? 
And never a glimpse of her window 
pane ! 
And I may die but the grass will 
grow, 
And the grass will grow when I am 

gone, 
And the wet west wind and the world 

will go on. 
Ay is the song of the wedded spheres, 
No is trouble and cloud and storm, 
Ay is life for a hundred years, 

No will push me down to the worm, 
And when I am there and dead and 

gone, 
The wet west wind and the world will 
go on. 

The wind and the wet, the wind and 
the wet ! 
Wet west wind how you blow, you 
blow! 
And never a line from my lady yet ! 

Is it ay or no ? is it ay or no 1 
Blow then, blow, and when I am gone, 
The wet west wind and the world may 
go on. 

NO ANSWER. 

Winds are loud and you are dumb, 
Take my love, for love will come, 

Love will come but once a life. 
Winds are loud and winds will pass ! 
Spring is here with leaf and grass : 

Take my love and be my wife. 
After-loves of maids and men 
.Are but dainties drest again: 
Love me now, you'll love me then : 

Love can love but once a life. 

THE ANSWER. 

Two little hands that meet, 
Claspt on her seal, my sweet ! 
Must I take you and break you, 
Two little hands that meet ? 
I must take you, and break you, 
And loving hands must part — 
Take, take — break, break — 
Break — you may break my heart. 
Faint heart never won — 
Break, break, and all's done. 



Be merry, all birds, to-day, 

Be merry on earth as you never 
were merry before, 
Be merry in heaven, O larks, and far 
away, 
And merry for ever and ever, and 
one day more. 

Why ? 
For it's easy to find a rhyme. 
Look, look, how he flits, 

The fire-crown'd king of the wrens, 
from out of the pine ! 
Look how they tumble the blossom, 
the mad little tits ! 
" Cuck-oo ! Cuck-oo ! " was ever a 
May so fine ? 

Why? 
For it's easy to find a rhyme. 
O merry the linnet and dove, 

And swallow and sparrow and 
throstle, and have your desire ! 
O merry my heart, you have gotten 
the wings of love, 
And flit like the king of the wrens 
with a crown of fire. 
Why* 
For its ay ay, ay ay. 



Sun comes, moon comes. 

Time slips away. 
Sun sets, moon sets, 

Love, fix a day. 

" A year hence, a year hence." 
" We shall both be gray." 

" A month hence, a month hence" 
" Far, far away." 

"A week hence, a week hence." 

" Ah, the long delay." 
" Wait a little, wait a little, 

You shall fix a day." 

" To-morrow, love, to-morrow, 
And that's an age away." 

Blaze upon her window, sun, 
And honor all the day. 



196 



THE WINDOW. 



MARRIAGE MORNING. 

Light, so low upon earth, 

You send a flash to the sun. 
Here is the golden close of love, 

All my wooing is done. 
Oh, the woods and the meadows, 

Woods where we hid from the wet, 
Stiles where we stay'd to be kind, 

Meadows in -which we met ! 

Light, so low in the vale 

You flash and lighten afar, 
For this is the golden morning of love, 



And you are his morning star. 
Flash, I am coming, I come, 

By meadow and stile and wood, 
Oh, lighten into my eyes and my heart, 

Into my heart and my blood ! 

Heart, are you great enough 

For a love that never tires ? 
heart, are you greatcnough for love % 

I have heard of thorns and briers. 
Over the thorns and briers, 

Over the meadows and stiles, 
Over the world to the end of it 

Flash for a million miles. 







IDYLS OF THE KING. 



3>S<< 



DEDICATION. 

These to His Memory — since he held 
them dear, 

Perchance as finding there uncon- 
sciously 

Some image of himself — I dedicate, 

I dedicate, I consecrate with tears — 

These Idylls. 

And indeed He seems to me 

Scarce other than my king's ideal 
knight, 

" Who reverenced his conscience as 
his king; 

Whose glory was, redressing human 
wrong ; 

Who spake no slander, no, nor listen'd 
to it; 

Who loved one only and who clave to 
her — " 

Her — over all whose realms to their 
last isle, 

Commingled with the gloom of im- 
minent war, 

The shadow of His loss drew like 
eclipse, 

Darkening the world. We have lost 
him : he is gone : 

We know him now : all narrow jeal- 
ousies 

Are silent ; and we see him as he 
moved, 

How modest, kindly, all-accomplish'd, 
wise, 

With what sublime repression of him- 
self, 

And in what limits, and how tenderly; 



Not swaying to this faction or to that ; 

Not making his high place the lawless 
perch 

Of wing'd ambitions, nor a vantage- 
ground 

For pleasure j but thro' all this tract 
of years 

Wearing the white flower of a blame- 
less life, 

Before a thousand peering littlenesses, 

In that fierce light which beats upon 
a throne, 

And blackens every blot : for where 
is lie, 

Who dares foreshadow for an only son 

A lovelier life, a more unstain'd, than 
his? 

Or how should England dreaming of 
his sons 

Hope more for these than some in- 
heritance 

Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine, 

Thou noble Father of her Kings to be, 

Laborious for her people and her 
poor — 

Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler 
day — 

Far-sighted summoner of War and 
Waste 

To fruitful strifes and rivalries of 
peace — 

Sweet nature gilded by the gracious 
gleam 

Of letters, dear to Science, dear to Art, 

Dear to thy land and ours, a Prince 
indeed, 

Beyond all titles, and a household 
name, 



198 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR 



Hereafter, thro* all times, Albert the 
Good. 

Break not, woman's-heart, but 

still endure ; 
Break not, for thou art Royal, but 

endure, 
Remembering all the beauty of that 

star 
Which shone so close beside Thee that 

ye made 
One light together, but has past and 

leaves 
The Crown a lonely splendor. 

May all love, 
His love, unseen but felt, o'ershadow 

Thee, 
The love of all Thy sons encompass 

Thee, 
The love of all Thy daughters cherish 

Thee, 
The love of all Thy people comfort 

Thee, 
Till God's love set Thee at his side 

again ! 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 

Leodogran, the King of Cameliard, 
Had one fair daughter, and none other 

child ; 
And she was fairest of all flesh on 

earth, 
Guinevere, and in her his one delight. 

For many a petty king ere Arthur 

came 
Ruled in this isle, and ever waging 

war 
Each upon other, wasted all the land; 
And still from time to time the 

heathen host ' 
Svvarm'd overseas, and harried what 

was left. 
And so there grew great tracts of wil- 
derness, 
Wherein the beast was ever more and 

more, 
But man was less and less, till Arthur 

came. 



For first Aurelius lived and fought 

and died, 
And after him King (Tther fought and 

died, 
But either f ail'd to make the kingdom 

one. 
And after these King Arthur for a 

space, 
And thro' the puissance of his Table 

Round, 
Drew all their petty princedoms under 

him, 
Their king and head, and made a realm, 

and reign'd. 



And thus the land of Cameliard 

was waste, 
Thick with wet woods, and many a 

beast therein, 
And none or few to scare or chase the 

beast ; 
So that wild dog, and wolf and boar 

and bear 
Came night and day, and rooted in 

the fields, 
And wallow'd in the gardens of the 

King. 
And ever and anon the wolf would 

steal 
The children and devour, but now and 

then, 
Her own brood lost or dead, lent her 

fierce teat 
To human sucklings ; and the children, 

housed 
In her foul den, there at their meat 

would growl, 
And mock their foster-mother on four 

feet, 
Till, straighten'd, they grew up to 

wolf-like men, 
Worse than the wolves. And King 

Leodogran 
Groan'd for the Roman legions here 

again, 
And Caesar's eagle: then his brother 

king, 
Urien, assail'd him : last a heathen 

horde, 
Reddening the sun with smoke and 

earth with blood, 




"and Guinevere 
Stood bv the castle walls to watch him pass. 



Page 199. 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 



199 



And on the spike that split the 

mother's heart 
Spitting the child, brake on him, till, 

amazed, 
He knew not whither he should turn 

for aid. 

But — for he heard of Arthur newly 

crown'd, 
Tho' not without an uproar made by 

those 
Who cried, " He is not Uther's son " 

— the King 
Sent to him, saying, " Arise, and help 

us thou ! 
For here between the man and beast 

we die." 

And Arthur yet had done no deed 

of arms, 
But heard the call, and came: and 

Guinevere 
Stood by the castle walls to watch him 

pass ; 
But since he neither wore on helm or 

shield 
The golden symboj. of his kinglihood, 
But rode a simple knight among his 

knights, 
And many of these in richer arms 

than he, 
She saw him not, or mark'd not, if she 

saw, 
One among many, tho' his face was 

bare. 
But Arthur, looking downward as he 

past, 
Felt the light of her eyes into his life 
Smite on the sudden, yet rode on, and 

pitch'd 
His tents beside the forest. Then he 

drave 
The heathen ; after, slew the beast, 

and fell'd 
The forest, letting in the sun, and 

made 
Broad pathways for the hunter and 

the knight 
And so return'd. 

For while he linger'd there, 
A doubt that ever smoulder'd in the 
hearts 



Of those great Lords and Barons of 

his realm 
Flash'd forth and into war : for most 

of these, 
Colleaguing with a score of petty 

kings, 
Made head against him, crying, " Who 

is he 
That he should rule us 1 who hath 

proven him 
King Uther's son % for lo ! we look at 

him, 
And find nor face nor bearing, limbs 

nor voice, 
Are like to those of Uther whom we 

knew. 
This is the son of Gorlo'is, not the 

King ; 
This is the son of Anton, not the 

King." 

And Arthur, passing thence to 

battle, felt 
Travail, and throes and agonies of the 

life, 
Desiring to be join'd with Guinevere; 
And thinking as he rode, " Her father 

said 
That there between the man and beast 

they die. 
Shall I not lift her from this land of 

beasts 
Up to my throne, and side by side 

with me 1 
What happiness to reign a lonely 

king, 
Vext — O ye stars that shudder over 

me, 

earth that soundest hollow under 

me, 
Vext with waste dreams ? for saving 

I be join'd 
To her that js the fairest under heaven, 

1 seem as nothing in the mighty world, 
And cannot will my will, nor work my 

work 
Wholly, nor make myself in mine own 

realm 
Victor and lord. But were I join'd 

with her, 
Then might we live together as one 

life, 



200 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 



And reigning with one will in every- 
thing 

Have power in this dark land to 
lighten it, 

And power on this dead world to 
make it live." 

Thereafter — as he speaks who tells 

the tale — 
When Arthur reach'd a field-of -battle 

bright 
With pitch'd pavilions of his foe, the 

world 
Was all so clear about him, that he 

saw 
The smallest rock far on the faintest 

hill, 
And even in high day the morning 

star. 
So when the King had set his banner 

broad, 
At once from either side, with trumpet- 
blast, 
And shouts, and clarions shrilling unto 

blood, 
The long-lanced battle let their horses 

run. 
And now the Barons and the kings 

prevail'd, 
And now the King, as here and there 

that war 
Went swaying; but the Powers who 

walk the world 
Made lightnings and great thunders 

over him, 
And dazed all eyes, till Arthur by 

main might, 
And mightier of his hands with every 

blow, 
And leading all his knighthood threw 

the kings 
Carados, Urien, Cradlemont of Wales, 
Claudias, and Clariance of Northum- 
berland, 
The King Brandagoras of Latangor, 
With Anguisant of Erin, Morganore, 
And Lot of Orkney. Then, before a 

voice 
As dreadful as the shout of one who 

sees 
To one who sins, and deems himself 

alone 



And all the world asleep, they swerved 

and brake 
Flying, and Arthur calFd to stay the 

brands 
That hack'd among the flyers, " Ho ! 

they yield ! " 
So like a painted battle the war stood 
Silenced, the living quiet as the dead, 
And in the heart of Arthur joy was 

lord. 
He laugh'd upon his warrior whom 

he loved 
And honor'd most. " Thou dost not 

doubt me King, 
So well thine arm hath wrought for 

me to-day." 
" Sir and my liege," he cried, " the 

fire of God 
Descends upon thee in the battle-field : 
I know thee for my King ! " Whereat 

the two, 
For each had warded either in the 

fight, 
Sware on the field of death a deathless 

love. 
And Arthur said, " Man's word is God 

in man : • 
Let chance what will, I trust thee to 

the death." 

Then quickly from the foughten 

field he sent 
Ulfius, and Brasti.as, and Bedivere, 
His new-made knights, to King Leo- 

dogran, 
Saying, " If I in aught have served 

thee well, 
Give me thy daughter Guinevere to 

wife." 

Whom when he heard, Leodogran 

in heart 
Debating — " How should I that am a 

king, 
However much he holp me at my 

need, 
Give my one daughter saving to a 

king, 
And a king's son 1 " — lifted his voice, 

and call'd 
A hoary man, his chamberlain, to 

whom 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 



201 



He trusted all things, and of him 

required 
His counsel ; " Knowest thou aught of 

Arthur's birth ? " 

Then spake the hoary chamberlain 

and said, 
" Sir King, there be but two old men 

that know : 
And each is twice as old as I ; and one 
Is Merlin, the wise man that ever 

served 
King Uther thro' his magic art ; and 

one 
Is Merlin's master (so they call him) 

Bleys, 
Who taught him magic ; but the 

scholar ran 
Before the master, and so far, that 

Bleys 
Laid magic by, and sat him down, and 

wrote 
All things and whatsoever Merlin did 
In one great annal-book, where after 

years 
Will learn the secret of our Arthur's 

birth." 

To whom the King Leodogran 
replied, 

" O friend, had I been holpen half as 
well 

By this King Arthur as by thee to- 
day, 

Then beast and man had had their 
share of me : 

But summon here before us yet once 
more 

Ulfius, and Brastias, and Bedivere." 

Then, when they came before him, 
the King said, 

"I have seen the cuckoo chased by 
lesser fowl, 

And reason in the chase : but where- 
fore now 

Do these your lords stir up the heat 
of war, 

Some calling Arthur born of Gorlo'is, 

Others of Anton ? Tell me, ye your- 
selves, 



Hold ye this Arthur for King Uther'!- 
son ? " 



And Ulfius and Brastius answer'd, 

"Ay." 
Then Bedivere, the first of all his 

knights 
Knighted by Arthur at his crowning, 

spake — 
For bold in heart and act and word 

was he, 
Whenever slander breathed against 

the King — 

" Sir, there be many rumors on this 

head : 
For there be those who hate him in 

their hearts, 
Call him baseborn, and since his ways 

are sweet, 
And theirs are bestial, hold him less 

than man : 
And there be those who deem him 

more than man, 
And dream he dropt from heaven : but 

my belief 
In all this matter — so ye care to 

learn — 
Sir, for ye know that in King Uther's 

time 
The prince and warrior Gorlois, he 

that held 
Tintagil castle by the Cornish sea, 
Was wedded with a winsome wife, 

Ygerne : 
And daughters had she borne him, — 

one whereof, 
Lot's wife, the Queen of Orkney, 

Bellicent, 
Hath ever like a loyal sister cleaved 
To Arthur, — but a son she had not 

borne. 
And Uther cast upon her eyes of love : 
But she, a stainless wife to Gorlo'is, 
So loathed the bright dishonor of his 

love, 
That Gorlo'is and King Uther went to 

war : 
And overthrown was Gorlo'is and slain. 
Then Uther in his wrath and heat 

besieged 



202 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 



Ygerne within Tintagil, where her 

men, 
Seeing the mighty swarm about their 

walls, 
Left her and fled, and Uther enter'd 

in, 
And there was none to call to but him- 
self. 
So, compass'd by the power of the 

King, 
Enforced she was to wed him in her 

tears, 
And with a shameful swiftness : after- 
ward, 
Not many moons, King Uther died 

himself, 
Moaning and wailing for an heir to 

rule 
After him, lest the realm should go to 

wrack. 
And that same night, the night of the 

new year, 
By reason of the bitterness and grief 
That vext his mother, all before his 

time 
Was Arthur born, and all as soon as 

born 
Deliver'd at a secret postern-gate 
To Merlin, to be holden far apart 
Until his hour should come ; because 

the lords 
Of that fierce day were as the lords of 

this, 
Wild beasts, and surely would have 

torn the child 
Piecemeal among them, had they 

known ; for each 
But sought to rule for his own self 

and hand, 
And many hated Uther for the sake 
Of Gorlois. Wherefore Merlin took 

the child, 
And gave him to Sir Anton, an old 

knight 
And ancient friend of Uther ; and his 

wife 
Nursed the young prince, and rear'd 

him with her own ; 
And no man knew. And ever since 

the lords 
Have foughten like wild beasts among 

themselves, 



So that the realm has gone to wrack : 

but now, 
This year, when Merlin (for his hour 

had come) 
Brought Arthur forth, and set him in 

the hall, 
Proclaiming, ' Here is Uther's heir, 

your king,' 
A hundred voices cried, 'Away with 

him! 
No king of ours ! a son of Gorlois 

he, 
Or else the child of Anton, and no 

king, 
Or else baseborn.' Yet Merlin thro' 

his craft, 
And while the people clamor'd for a 

king, 
Had Arthur crown'd; but after, the 

great lords 
Banded, and so brake out in open 

war." 

Then while the King debated with 

himself 
If Arthur were the child of shameful- 

ness, 
Or born the son of Gorlois, after 

death, 
Or Uther's son, and born before his 

time, 
Or whether there were truth in any- 
thing 
Said by these three, there came to 

Cameliard, 
With Gawain and young Modred, her 

two sons, 
Lot's wife, the Queen of Orkney, 

Bellicent; 
Whom as he could, not as he would, 

the King 
Made feast for, saying, as they sat at 

meat, 

" A doubtful throne is ice on sum- 
mer seas. 

Ye come from Arthur's court. Victor 
his men 

Report him ! Yea, but ye — think ye 
this king — 

So many those that hate him, and so 
strong, 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 



203 



So few his knights, however brave 

they be — 
Hath body enow to hold his foemen 

down "? " 



" King," she cried, " and I will 

tell thee: few, 
Few, but all brave, all of one mind 

with him ; 
For I was near him when the savage 

yells 
Of 'Other's peerage died, and Arthur 

sat 
Crown'd on the dais, and his warriors 

cried, 
' Be thou the king, and we will work 

thy will 
Who love thee.' Then the King in 

low deep tones, 
And simple words of great authority, 
Bound them by so strait vows to his 

own self, 
That when they rose, knighted from 

kneeling, some 
Were pale as at the passing of a ghost, 
Some flush'd, and others dazed, as one 

who wakes 
Half-blinded at the coming of a light. 

" But when he spake and cheer'd 

his Table Round 
With large divine and comfortable 

words 
Beyond my tongue to tell thee — I 

beheld 
From eye to eye thro' all their Order 

% flash 
A momentary likeness of the King : 
And ere it left their faces, thro' the 

cross 
And those around it and the Crucified, 
Down from the casement over Arthur, 

smote 
Flame-color, vert and azure, in three 

rays, 
One falling upon each of three fair 

queens, 
Who stood in silence near his throne, 

the friends 
Of Arthur, gazing on him, tall, with 

bright 



Sweet faces, who will help him at his 
need. 

"And there I saw mage Merlin, 

whose vast wit 
And hundred winters are but as the 

hands 
Of loyal vassals toiling for their liege. 

" And near him stood the Lady of 

the Lake, 
Who knows a subtler magic than his 

own — 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful. 
She gave the King his huge cross- 

hilted sword, 
Whereby to drive the heathen out : a 

mist 
Of incense curl'd about her, and her 

face 
Wellnigh was hidden in the minster 

gloom; 
But there was heard among the holy 

hymns 
A voice as of the waters, for she dwells 
Down in a deep, calm, whatsoever 

storms 
May shake the world, and when the 

surface rolls, 
Hath power to walk the waters like 

our Lord. 

" There likewise I beheld Excalibur 
Before him at his crowning borne, the 

sword 
That rose from out the bosom of the 

lake, 
And Arthur row'd across and took it 

— rich 
With jewels, elfin Orim, on the hilt, 
Bewildering heart and eye — the blade 

so bright 
That men are blinded by it — on one 

side, 
Graven in the oldest tongue of all this 

world, 
' Take me/ but turn the blade and ye 

shall see, 
And written in the speech ye speak 

yourself, 



204 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 



' Cast me away ! ' And sad was 

Arthur's face 
Taking it, but old Merlin counsell'd 

him, 
' Take thou and strike ! the time to 

cast away 
Is yet far-off.' So this great brand 

the king • 
Took, and by this will beat his f oemen 

down." 

Thereat Leodogram rejoiced, but 

thought 
To sift his doubtings to the last, and 

ask'd, 
Fixing full eyes of question on her 

face, 
" The swallow and the swift are near 

akin, 
But thou art closer to this noble prince, 
Being his own dear sister ; " and she 

said, 
" Daughter of Gorlois and Ygerne am 

I;" 
" And therefore Arthur's sister 1 " 

ask'd the King. 
She answer'd, "These be secret things," 

and sign'd 
To those two sons to pass and let 

them be. 
And Gawain went, and breaking into 

song 
Sprang out, and f ollow'd by his flying 

hair 
Ran like a colt, and leapt at all he 

saw: 
But Modred laid his ear beside the 

doors, 
And there half-heard ; the same that 

afterward 
Struck for the throne, and striking 

found his doom. 



And then the Queen made answer, 

" What know I ? 
For dark my mother was in eyes and 

hair, 
And dark in hair and eyes am I ; and 

dark 
Was Gorlois, yea and dark was Uther 

too, 



Wellnigh to blackness ; but this King 

is fair 
Beyond the race of Britons and of men. 
Moreover, always in my mind I hear 
A cry from out the dawning of my life, 
A mother weeping, and I hear her say, 
' that ye had some brother, pretty 

one, 
To guard thee on the rough ways of 

the world.'" 

" Ay," said the King, " and hear ye 
such a cry 1 
But when did Arthur chance upon 
thee first 1 " 

" O King ! " she cried, " and I will 

tell thee true : 
He found me first when yet a little 

maid : 
Beaten I had been for a little fault 
Whereof I was not guilty ; and out I 

ran 
And flung myself down on a bank of 

heath, 
And hated this fair world and all 

therein, 
And wept, and wish'd that I were 

dead ; and he — 
I know not whether of himself he 

came, 
Or brought by Merlin, who, they say, 

can walk 
Unseen at pleasure — he was at my 

side 
And spake sweet words, and comforted 

my heart, 
And dried my tears, being a chfld with 

me. 
And many a time he came, and ever- 
more 
As I grew greater grew with me ; and 

sad 
At times he seem'd, and sad with him 

was I, 
Stern too at times, and then I loved 

him not, 
But sweet again, and then I loved him 

well. 
And now of late I see him less and 

less, 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 



205 



But those first days had golden hours 

for me, 
For then I surely thought he would 

be king 

" But let me tell thee now another 
/ tale : 
For Bleys, our Merlin's master, as 

they say, 
Died but of late, and sent his cry to 

me, 
To hear him speak before he left his 

life. 
Shrunk like a fairy changeling lay 

the mage ; 
And when I enter'd told me that him- 
self 
And Merlin ever served about the 

King, 
Uther, before he died; and on the 

night 
When Uther in Tintagil past away 
Moaning and wailing for an heir, the 

two 
Left the still King, and passing forth 

to breathe, 
Then from the castle gateway by the 

chasm 
Descending thro' the dismal night — 

a night 
In which the bounds of heaven and 

earth were lost — 
Beheld, so high upon the dreary 

deeps 
It seem'd in heaven, a ship, the shape 

thereof 
A dragon wing'd, and all from stem 

to stern 
Bright with a shining people on the 

decks, 
And gone as soon as seen. And then 

the two 
Dropt to the cove, and watch'd the 

great sea fall, 
"Wave after wave, each mightier than 

the last, 
Till last, a ninth one, gathering half 

the deep 
And full of voices, slowly rose and 

plunged 
Roaring, and all the wave was in a 

flame : 



And down the wave and in the flame 

was borne 
A naked babe, and rode to Merlin's 

feet, 
Who stoopt and caught the babe, and 

cried ' The King ! 
Here is an heir for Uther! ' And the 

fringe 
Of that great breaker, sweeping up 

the strand, 
Lash'd at the wizard as he spake the 

word, 
And all at once all round him rose in 

fire, 
So that the child and he were clothed 

in fire. 
And presently thereafter follow'd 

calm, 
Free sky and stars : ' And this same 

child,' he said, 
' Is he who reigns ; nor could I part 

in peace 
Till this were told.' And saying this 

the seer 
Went thro' the strait and dreadful 

pass of death, 
Not ever to be question'd any more 
Save on the further side ; but when I 

met 
Merlin, and ask'd him if these things 

were truth — 
The shining dragon and the naked, 

child 
Descending in the glory of the seas — 
He laugh'd as is his wont, and an- 

swer'd me 
In riddling triplets of old time, and 

said : 

" ' Rain, rain, and sun ! a rainbow 
in the sky ! 
A young man will be wiser by and by ; 
An old man's wit may wander ere he 
die. 
Rain, rain, and sun ! a rainbow on 
the lea ! 
And truth is this to me, and that to 

thee; 
And truth or clothed or naked let it 
be. 
Rain, sun, and rain ! and the free 
blossom blows : 



206 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 



Sun, rain, and sun ! and where is he 

who knows ? 
From the great deep to the great deep 

he goes.' 

" So Merlin riddling anger'd me ; 

but thou 
Fear not to give this King thine only 

child, 
Guinevere : so great bards of him will 

sing 
Hereafter ; and dark sayings from of 

old 
Ranging and ringing thro' the minds 

of men, 
And echo'd by old folk beside their 

fires 
For comfort after their wage-work is 

done, 
Speak of the King ; and Merlin in our 

time 
Hath spoken also, not in jest, and 

sworn 
Tho' men may wound him that he will 

not die, 
But pass, again to come ; and then or 

now 
Utterly smite the heathen underfoot, 
Till these and all men hail him for 

their king." 

She spake and King Leodogran 

rejoiced, 
But musing "Shall I answer yea or 

nay % " 
Doubted, and drowsed, nodded and 

slept, and saw, 
Dreaming, a slope of land that ever 

grew, 
Field after field, up to a height, the 

peak 
Haze-hidden, and thereon a phantom 

king, 
Now looming, and now lost; and on 

the slope 
The sword rose, the hind fell, the herd 

was driven, 
Fire glimpsed; and all the land from 

roof and rick, 
In drifts of smoke before a rolling 

wind, 



Stream'd to the peak, and mingled 
with the haze 

And made it thicker; while the phan- 
tom king 

Sent out at times a voice ; and here 
or there 

Stood one who pointed toward the 
voice, the rest 

Slew on and burnt, crying, " No king 
of ours, 

No son of Uther, and no king of ours ; " 

Till with a wink his dream was 
changed, the haze 

Descended, and the solid earth be- 
came 

As nothing, but the King stood out 
in heaven, 

Crown'd. And Leodogran awoke, and 
sent 

TJlfius, and Brastias and Bedivere, 

Back to the court of Arthur answer- 
ing yea. 

Then Arthur charged his warrior 

whom he loved 
And honor'd most, Sir Lancelot, to 

ride forth 
And bring the Queen ; — and watch'd 

him from the gates : 
And Lancelot past away among the 

flowers, 
(For then was latter April) and 

return'd 
Among the flowers, in May, with 

Guinevere. 
To whom arrived, by Dubric the high 

saint, 
Chief of the church in Britain, and 

before 
The stateliest of her altar-shrines, the 

King 

That morn was married, while in stain- 
Jess white, 
The fair beginners of a nobler time, 
And glorying in their vows and him, 

his knights 
Stood round him, and rejoicing in his 

joy- II 

Far shone the fields of May thro' 

open door, 
The sacred altar blossom'd white with 

May, 






THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 



207 



The Sun of May descended on their 

King, 
They gazed on all earth's beauty in 

their Queen, 
Roll'd incense, and there past along 

the hymns 
A voice as of the waters, while the two 
Sware at the shrine of Christ a death- 
less love : 
And Arthur said, " Behold, thy doom 

is mine. 
Let chance what will, I love thee to 

the death ! " 
To whom the Queen replied with 

drooping eyes, 
" King and my lord, I love thee to the 

death ! " 
And holy Dubric spread his hands 

and spake ; 
" Reign ye, and live and love, and 

make the world 
Other, and may thy Queen be one 

with thee, 
And all this Order of thy Table 

Round 
Fulfil the boundless purpose of their 

King ! " 

So Dubric said ; but when they left 
the shrine 

Great Lords from Rome before the 
portal stood, 

In scornful stillness gazing as they 
past; 

Then while they paced a city all on 
fire 

With sun and cloth of gold, the trum- 
pets blew, 

And Arthur's knighthood sang before 
the King : — 

"Blow trumpet, for the world is 

white with May ; 
Blow trumpet, the long night hath 

roll'd away ! 
Blow thro' the living world — 'Let 

the King reign.' 

" Shall Rome or Heathen rule in 
Arthur's realm 1 
Flash brand and lance, fall battleaxe 
upon helm, 



Fall battleaxe, and flash brand ! 
the King reign. 



Let 



" Strike for the King and live ! his 

knights have heard 
That God hath told the King a secret 

word. 
Fall battleaxe, and flash brand ! Let 

the King reign. 

"Blow trumpet! he will lift us 

from the dust. 
Blow trumpet ! live the strength and 

die the lust ! 
Clang battleaxe, and clash brand ! Let 

the King reign. 

" Strike for the King and die ! and 

if thou diest, 
The King is King, and ever wills the 

highest. 
Clang battleaxe, and clash brand! 

Let the King reign. 

" Blow, for our Sun is mighty in his 

May! 
Blow, for our Sun is mightier day by 

day ! 
Clang battleaxe, and clash brand ! 

Let the King reign. 

"The King will follow Christ, and 

we the King 
In whom high God hath breathed a 

secret thing. 
Fall battleaxe, and flash brand ! Let 

the King reign." 

So sang the knighthood, moving to 

their hall. 
There at the banquet those great 

Lords from Rome, 
The slowly-fading mistress of the 

world, 
Strode in, and claim'd their tribute as 

of yore. 
But Arthur spake, " Behold, for these 

have sworn 
To wage my wars, and worship me 

their King ; 
The old order changeth, yielding place 

to new ; 



208 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



And we that fight for our fair father 

Christ, 
Seeing that ye be grown too weak and 

old 
To drive the heathen from your 

Roman wall, 
No tribute will we pay " : so those 

great lords 
Drew back in wrath, and Arthur 

strove with Rome. 



And Arthur and his knighthood for 

a space 
Were all one will, and thro' that 

strength the King 
Drew in the petty princedoms under 

him, 
Fought, and in twelve great battles 

overcame 
The heathen hordes, and made a realm 

and reign'd. 



THE ROUND TABLE. 



GAEETH AND LYNETTE. 
GEKAINT AND ENID. 
MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 
LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 

GARETH AND LYNETTE. 

The last tall son of Lot and Bellicent, 
And tallest, Gareth, in a showerful 

spring 
Stared at the spate. A slender-shafted 

Pine 
Lost footing, fell, and so was whirl'd 

away. 
" How lie went down," said Gareth, 

"as a false knight 
Or evil king before my lance if lance 
Were mine to use — senseless cata- 
ract, 
Bearing all down in thy precipitancy — 
And yet thou art but swollen with 

cold snows 
And mine is living blood : thou dost 

His will, 
The Maker's, and not knowest, and I 

that know, 
Have strength and wit, in my good 

mother's hall 
Linger with vacillating obedience, 
I J rison'd, and kept and coax'd and 

whistled to — 
Since the good mother holds me still 

a child ! 
Good mother is bad mother unto me ! 
A worse were better ; yet no worse 

would I. 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 
PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 
THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 
GUINEVERE. 

Heaven yield her for it, but in me put 

force 
To weary her ears with one continuous 

prayer, 
Until she let me fly discaged to 

sweep 
In ever-highering eagle-circles up 
To the great Sun of Glory, and thence. 

swoop 
Down upon all things base, and dash 

them dead, 
A knight of Arthur, working out his 

will, 
To cleanse the world. Why, Gawain, 

when he came 
With Modred hither in the summer- 
time, 
Ask'd me to tilt with him, the proven 

knight. 
Modred for want of worthier was the 

judge. 
Then I so shook him in the saddle, he 

said, 
'Thou hast half prevail'd against me,' 

said so — he — 
Tho' Modred biting his thin lips was 

mute, 
For he is alway sullen : what care 1 1 " 

And Gareth went, and hovering 
round her chair 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



209 



Ask'd, " Mother, tho' ye count me still 

the child, 
Sweet mother, do ye love the child ? " 

She laugh'd, 
" Thou art but a wild-goose to ques- 
tion it." 
" Then, mother, an ye love the child," 

he said, 
" Being a goose and rather tame than 

wild, 
Hear the child's story." " Yea, my 

well-beloved, 
An 'twere but of goose and golden 

eggs." 

And Gareth answer'd her with kind- 
ling eyes, 
" Nay, nay, good mother, but this egg 

of mine 
Was finer gold than any goose can 

lay; 
For this an Eagle, a royal Eagle, laid 
Almost beyond eye-reach, on such a 

palm 
As glitters gilded in thy Book of 

Hours. 
And there was ever haunting round 

the palm 
A lusty youth, but poor, who often 

saw 
The splendor sparkling from aloft, 

and thought 
' An I could climb and lay my hand 

upon it, 
Then were I wealthier than a leash of 

kings,' 
But ever when he reach'd a hand to 

climb, 
One, that had loved him from his 

childhood, caught 
And stay'd him, ' Climb not lest thou 

break thy neck, 
I charge thee by my love/ and so the 

boy, 
Sweet mother, neither clomb, nor 

brake his neck, 
But brake his very heart in pining 

for it, 
And past away." 

To whom the mother said, 
"True love, sweet son, had risk'd him- 
self and climb'd, 



And handed down the golden treasure 
to him." 

And Gareth answer'd her with kind- 
ling eyes, 
" Gold ? said I gold ? — ay then, why 

lie, or she, 
Or whoso'er it was, or half the world 
Had ventured — had the thing I spake 

of been 
Mere gold — but this was all of that 

true steel, 
Whereof they forged the brand Ex- 

calibur, 
And lightnings play'd about it in the 

storm, 
And all the little fowl were flurried 

at it, 
And there were cries and clashings in 

the nest, 
That sent him from his senses : let me 



Then Bellicent bemoan'd herself 

and said, 
" Hast thou no pity upon my loneli- 
ness 1 
Lo, where thy father Lot beside the 

hearth 
Lies like a log, and all but smoulder'd 

out! 
For ever since when traitor to the 

King 
He fought against him in the Barons' 

war*, 
And Arthur gave him back his terri 

tory, 
His age hath slowly droopt, and now 

lies there 
A yet-warm corpse, and yet unburia- 

■ ble, 
No more; nor sees, nor hears, nor 

speaks, nor knows. 
And both thy brethren are in Arthur's 

hall, 
Albeit neither loved with that full 

love 
I feel for thee, nor worthy such a 

love : 
Stay therefore thou ; red berries charm 

the bird, 
And thee, mine innocent, the jousts, 

the wars, 



210 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



Who never knewest finger-ache, nor 

pang 
Of wrench'd or broken limb — an often 

chance 
In those brain-stunning shocks, and 

tourney-falls, 
Frights to my heart ; but stay : follow 

the deer 
By these tall firs and our fast-falling 

burns ; 
So make thy manhood mightier day 

by day; 
Sweet is the chase : and I will seek 

thee out 
Some comfortable bride and fair, to 

grace 
Thy climbing life, and cherish my 

prone year, 
Till falling into Lot's forgetfulness 
I know not thee, myself, nor any- 
thing. 
Stay, my best son ! ye are yet more 

boy than man." 

Then Gareth, " An ye hold me yet 

for child, 
Hear yet once more the story of the 

child. 
For, mother, there was once a King, 

like ours. 
The prince his heir, when tall and 

marriageable, 
Ask'd for a bride ; and thereupon the 

King 
Set two before him. One was fair, 

strong, arm'd — 
But to be won by force — and many 

men 
Desired her ; one, good lack, no man 

desired. 
And these were the conditions of the 

King: 
That save he won the first by force, 

he needs 
Must wed that other, whom no man 

desired, 
A red-faced bride who knew herself 

so vile, 
That evermore she long'd to hide her- 
self, 
Nor fronted man or woman, eye to 

eye — 



Yea — some she cleaved to, but they 

died of her. 
And one — they call'd her Fame ; and 

one, — Mother, 
How can ye keep me tether'd to you 

— Shame ! 
Man am I grown, a man's work must 

I do. 
Follow the deer ? follow the Christ, 

the King, 
Live pure, speak true, right wrong, 

follow the King — 
Else, wherefore born 1 " 

To whom the mother said, 
" Sweet son, for there be many who 

deem him not, 
Or will not deem him, wholly proven 

King — 
Albeit in mine own heart I knew him 

King, 
When I was frequent with him in my 

youth, 
And heard him Kingly speak, and 

doubted him 
No more than he, himself; but felt 

him mine, 
Of closest kin to me : yet — wilt thou 

leave 
Thine easeful biding here, and risk 

thine all, 
Life, limbs, for one that is not proven 

King 1 ? 
Stay, till the cloud that settles round 

his birth 
Hath lifted but a little. Stay, sweet 

son." 

And Gareth answer'd quickly, " Not 

an hour, 
So that ye yield me — I will walk thro' 

fire, 
Mother, to gain it — your full leave to 

go. 
Not proven, who swept the dust of 

ruin'd Rome 
From off the threshold of the realm, 

and crush'd 
The Idolaters, and made the people 

free? 
Who should be King save him who 

makes us free 1 " 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



211 



So when the Queen, who long had 

sought in vain 
To break him from the intent to which 

he grew, 
Found her son's will unwaveringly 

one, 
She answer'd craftily, " Will ye walk 

thro' fire 1 
Who walks thro' fire will hardly heed 

the smoke. 
Ay, go then, an ye must : only one 

proof, 
Before thou ask the King to make thee 

knight, 
Of thine obedience and thy love to 

me, 
Thy mother, — I demand." 

And Gareth cried, 
" A hard one, or a hundred, so I go. 
Nay — quick ! the proof to prove me 
to the quick ! " 

But slowly spake the mother look- 
ing at him, 

" Prince, thou shalt go disguised to 
Arthur's hall, 

And hire thyself to serve for meats 
and drinks 

Among the scullions and the kitchen- 
knaves, 

And those that hand the dish across 
the bar. 

Nor shalt thou tell thy name to any- 
one. 

And thou shalt serve a twelvemonth 
and a day." 

For so the Queen believed that when 
her son 

Beheld his only way to glory lead 

Low down thro' villain kitchen-vas- 
salage, 

Her own true Gareth was too princely- 
proud 

To pass thereby ; so should he rest 
with her, 

Closed in her castle from the sound of 
arms. 

Silent awhile was Gareth, then 
replied, 



" The thrall in person may be free in 

soul, 
And I shall see the jousts. Thy son 

am I, 
And since thou art my mother, must 

obey. 
I therefore yield me freely to thy will ; 
For hence will I, disguised, and hire 

myself 
To serve with scullions and with 

kitchen-knaves ; 
Nor tell my name to any — no, not the 

King." 

Gareth awhile linger'd. The 

mother's eye 
Full of the wistful fear that he would 

go, 
And turning toward him wheresoe'er 

he turn'd, 
Perplext his outward purpose, till an 

hour, 
When waken'd by the wind which with 

full voice 
Swept bellowing thro' the darkness on 

to dawn, 
He rose, and out of slumber calling 

two 
That still had tended on him from his 

birth, 
Before the wakeful mother heard him, 

went. 

The three were clad like tillers of 

the soil. 
Southward they set their faces. The 

birds made 
Melody on branch, and melody in mid 

air. 
The damp hill-slopes were quicken'd 

into green, 
And the live green had kindled into 

flowers, 
For it was past the time of Easterday. 

So, when their feet were planted on 

the plain 
That broaden'd toward the base of 

Camelot, 
Far off they saw the silver-misty morn 
Rolling her smoke about the Royal 

mount, 



212 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



That rose between the forest and the 
field. 

At times the summit of the high city- 
flash 'd ; 

At times the spires and turrets half- 
way down 

Prick'd thro' the mist; at times the 
great gate shone 

Only, that open'd on the field below : 

Anon, the whole fair city had disap- 
pear'd. 

Then those who went with Gareth 

were amazed, 
One crying, "Let us go no further, 

lord. 
Here is a city of Enchanters, built 
By fairy kings." The second echo'd 

him, 
" Lord, we have heard from our wise 

man at home 
To Northward, that this King is not 

the King, 
But only changeling out of Fairy- 
land, 
Who drave the heathen hence by 

sorcery 
And Merlin's glamour." Then the first 

again, 
" Lord, there is no such city anywhere, 
But all a vision." 

Gareth answer'd them 
With laughter, swearing he had 

glamour enow 
In his own blood, his princedom, youth 

and hopes, 
To plunge old Merlin in the Arabian 

sea; 
So push'd them all unwilling toward 

the gate. 
And there was no gate like it under 

heaven. 
For barefoot on the keystone, which 

was lined 
And rippled like an ever-fleeting wave, 
The Lady of the Lake stood : all her 

dress 
Wept from her sides as water flowing 

away; 
But like the cross her great and goodly 

arms 



Stretch'd under all the cornice and 

upheld : 
And drops of water fell from either 

hand ; 
And down from one a sword was hung, 

from one 
A censer, either worn with wind and 

storm ; 
And o'er her breast floated the sacred 

fish; 
And in the space to left of her, and 

right, 
Were Arthur's wars in weird devices 

done, 
New things and old co-twisted, as if 

Time 
Were nothing, so inveterately, that 

men 
Were giddy gazing there; and over 

all 
High on the top were those three 

Queens, the friends 
Of Arthur, who should help him at 

his need. 

Then those with Gareth for so long 

a space 
Stared at the figures, that at last it 

seem'd 
The dragon-boughts and elvish em- 

blemings 
Began to move, seethe, twine and 

curl : they call'd 
To Gareth, " Lord, the gateway is 

alive." 

And Gareth likewise on them fixt his 

eyes 
So long, that ev'n to him they seem'd 

to move. 
Out of the city a blast of music peal'd. 
Back from the gate started the three, 

to whom 
From out thereunder came an ancient 

man, 
Long-bearded, saying, " Who be ye, 

my sons 1 " 

Then Gareth, " We be tillers of the 
soil, 
Who leaving share in furrow come to 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



t 

213 



The glories of our King : but these, 

my men, 
(Your city moved so weirdly in the 

mist) 
Doubt if the King be King at all, or 

come 
From Fairyland ; and whether this 

be built 
By magic, and by fairy Kings and 

Queens ; 
Or whether there be any city at all, 
Or all a vision : and this music now 
Hath scared them both, but tell thou 

these the truth." 

Then that old Seer made answer 

playing on him 
And saying, "Son, I have seen the 

good ship sail 
Keel upward and mast downward in 

the heavens, 
And solid turrets topsy-turvy in air : 
And here is truth; but an it please 

thee not, 
Take thou the truth as thou hast told 

it me. 
For truly as thou sayest, a Fairy King 
And Fairy Queens have built the city, 

son ; 
They came from out a sacred mountain- 
cleft 
Toward the sunrise, each with harp 

in hand, 
And built it to the music of their harps. 
And as thou sayest it is enchanted, 

son, 
For there is nothing in it as it seems 
Saving the King; tho' some there be 

that hold 
The King a shadow, and the city real : 
Yet take thou heed of him, for, so 

thou pass 
Beneath this archway, then wilt thou 

become 
A thrall to his enchantments, for the 

King 
Will bind thee by such vows, as is a 

shame 
A man should not be bound by, yet 

the which 
No man can keep ; but, so thou dread 

to swear, 



Pass not beneath this gateway, but 

abide 
Without, among the cattle of the field. 
For an ye heard a music, like enow 
They are building still, seeing the city 

is built 
To music, therefore never built at all. 
And therefore built for ever. 

Gareth spake 
Anger'd, " Old Master, reverence thine 

own beard 
That looks as white as utter truth, 

and seems 
Wellnigh as long as thou art staturecl 

tall! 
Why mockest thou the stranger that 

hath been 
To thee fair-spoken ? " 

But the Seer replied, 
" Know ye not then the Riddling of 

the Bards ? 
' Confusion, and illusion, and relation, 
Elusion, and occasion, and evasion ' ? 
I mock thee not but as thou mockest 

me, 
And all that see thee, for thou art not 

who 
Thou seemest, but I know thee who 

thou art. 
And now thou goest up to mock the 

King, 
Who cannot brook the shadow of any 

lie." 

Unmockingly the mocker ending 
here 

Turn'd to the right, and past along 
the plain; 

Whom Gareth looking after said, "My 
men, 

Our one white lie sits like a little ghost 

Here on the threshold of our enter- 
prise. 

Let love be blamed for it, nor she, nor 
I: 

Well, we will make amends." 

With all good cheer 
He spake and laugh'd, then enter'd 
with his twain 



214 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



Camelot, a city of shadowy palaces 
And stately, rich in emblem and the 

work 
Of ancient kings who did their days in 

stone; 
Which Merlin's hand, the Mage at 

Arthur's court, 
Knowing all arts, had touch'd, and 

everywhere 
At Arthur's ordinance, tipt with lessen- 
ing peak 
And pinnacle, and had made it spire 

to heaven. 
And ever and anon a knight would pass 
Outward, or inward to the hall: his 

arms 
Clash'd ; and the sound was good to 

Gareth's ear. 
And out of bower and casement shyly 

glanced 
Eyes of pure women, wholesome stars 

of love ; 
And all about a healthful people stept 
As in the presence of a gracious king. 

Then into hall Gareth ascending 
' heard 
A voice, the voice of Arthur, and be- 
held 
Far over heads in that long-vaultea 

hall 
The splendor of the presence of the 

King 
Throned, and delivering doom — and 

look'd no more — 
But felt his young heart hammering 

in his ears, 
And thought, "For this half-shadow 

of a lie 
The truthful King will doom me when 

I speak." 
Yet pressing on, tho'allin fear to find 
Sir Gawain or Sir Modred, saw nor one 
Nor other, but in all the listening eyes 
Of those tall knights, that ranged 

about the throne, 
Clear honor shining like the dewy star 
Of dawn, and faith in their great King, 

with pure 
Affection, and the light of victory, 
And glory gain'd, and evermore to 

gain. 



Then came a widow crying to the 
King, 

"A boon, Sir King! Thy father, 
Uther, reft 

From my dead lord a field with vio- 
lence : 

For howsoe'er at first he proffer'd gold, 

Yet, for the field was pleasant in our 
eyes, 

We yielded not; and then he reft us 
of it 

Perforce, and left us neither gold nor 
field/' 

Said Arthur, " Whether would ye 1 
gold or field % " 

To whom the woman weeping, "Nay, 
my lord, 

The field was pleasant in my hus- 
band's eye." 

And Arthur, " Have thy pleasant 

field again, 
And thrice the gold for Uther's use 

thereof, 
According to the years. No boon is 

here, 
But justice, so thy say be proven 

true. 
Accursed, who from the wrongs his 

father did 
Would shape himself a right ! " 

And while she past, 
Came yet another widow crying tc 

him, 
" A boon, Sir King ! Thine enemy, 

King, am I. 
With thine own hand thou slewest my 

dear lord, 
A knight of Uther in the Barons' war, 
When Lot and many another rose and 

fought 
Against thee, saying thouwert basely 

born. 
I held with these, and loathe to ask 

thee aught. 
Yet lo ! my husband's brother had my 

son 
Thrall'd in his castle, and hath starved 

him dead ; 
And standeth seized of that inheritance 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



I 
215 



Which thou that slewest the sire hast 

left the son. 
So tho' I scarce can ask it thee for 

hate, 
Grant me some knight to do the battle 

for me, 
Kill the foul thief, and wreak me for 

my son." 

Then strode a good knight forward, 
crying to him, 

"A boon, Sir King! I am her kins- 
man, I. 

Give me to right her wrong, and slay 
the man." 

Then came Sir Kay, the seneschal, 

and cried, 
"A boon, Sir King! ev'n that thou 

grant her none, 
This railer, that hath mock'd thee in 

full hall — 
None ; or the wholesome boon of gyve 

and gag." 

But Arthur, " We sit King, to help 

the wrong'd 
Thro' all our realm. The woman loves 

her lord. 
Peace to thee, woman, with thy loves 

and hates ! 
The kings of old had doom'd thee to 

the flames, 
Aurelius Emrys would have scourged 

thee dead, 
And Uther slit thy tongue : but get 

thee hence — 
Lest that rough humor of the kings of 

old 
Return upon me ! Thou that art her 

kin, 
Go likewise ; lay him low and slay 

him not, 
But bring him here, that I may judge 

the right, 
According to the justice of the King : 
Then, be he guilty, by that deathless 

King 
Who lived and died for men, the man 

shall die." 

Then came in hall the messenger of 
Mark, 



A name of evil savor in the land, 
The Cornish king. In either hand he 

bore 
What dazzled all, and shone far-off as 

shines 
A field of charlock in the sudden sun 
Between two showers, a cloth of palest 

gold, 
Which down he laid before the throne, 

and knelt, 
Delivering, that his lord, the vassal 

king, 
Was ev'n upon his way to Camelot ; 
For having heard that Arthur of his 

grace 
Had made his goodly cousin, Tristram, 

knight, 
And, for himself was of the greater 

state, 
Being a king, he trusted his liege-lord 
Would yield him this large honor all 

the more; 
So pray'd him well to accept this cloth 

of gold, 
In token of true heart and fealty. 

Then Arthur cried to rend the cloth, 

to rend 
In pieces, and so cast it on the 

hearth. 
An oak-tree smoulder'd there. " The 

goodly knight ! 
What! shall the shield of Mark stand 

among these 1 " 
For, midway down the side of that long 

hall 
A stately pile, — whereof along the 

front, 
Some blazon'd, some but carven, and 

some blank, 
There ran a treble range of stony 

shields, — 
Rose, and high-arching overbrow'd the 

hearth. 
And under every shield a knight was 

named : 
For this was Arthur's custom in his 

hall; 
When some good knight had done one 

noble deed, 
His arms were carven only ; but if 

twain 



216 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



His arms were blazon'd also; but if 

none 
The shield was blank and bare without 

a sign 
Saving the name beneath ; and Gareth 

saw 
The shield of Gawain blazon'd rich and 

bright, 
And Modred's blank as death; and 

Arthur cried 
To rend the cloth and cast it on the 

hearth. 

" More like are we to reave him of 
his crown 

Than make him knight because men 
call him king. 

The kings we found, ye know we 
stay'd their hands 

From war among themselves, but left 
them kings ; 

Of whom were any bounteous, merci- 
ful, 

Truth-speaking, brave, good livers, 
them we enroll'd 

Among us, and they sit within our 
hall. 

But Mark hath tarnish'd the great 
name of king, 

As Mark would sully the low state' of 
churl : 

And, seeing he hath sent us cloth of 
gold, 

Return, and meet, and hold him from 
our eyes, 

Lest we should lap him up in cloth of 
lead, 

Silenced for ever — craven — a man 
of plots, 

Craft, poisonous counsels, wayside 
ambushings — 

No fault of thine : let Kay the senes- 
chal 

Look to thy wants, and send thee sat- 
isfied — 

Accursed, who strikes nor lets the 
hand be seen ! " 

And many another suppliant crying 

came 
With noise of ravage wrought by 

beast and man, 



And evermore a knight would ride 
away. 

Last, Gareth leaning both hands 

heavily 
Down on the shoulders of the twain, 

his men, 
Approach'd between them toward the 

King, and ask'd, 
" A boon, Sir King (his voice was all 

ashamed), 
For see ye not how weak and hunger- 
worn 
I seeni — leaning on these ? grant me 

to serve 
For meat and drink among thy 

kitchen-knaves 
A twelvemonth and a day, nor seek 

my name. 
Hereafter I will fight." 

To him the King, 
" A goodly youth and worth a good- 
lier boon ! 
But so thou wilt no goodlier, then 

must Kay, 
The master of the meats and drinks, 
be thine." 

He rose and past ; then Kay, a man 

of mien 
Wan-sallow as the plant that feels 

itself 
Root-bitten by white lichen, 

" Lo ye now ! 
This fellow hath broken from some 

Abbey, where, 
God wot, he had not beef and brewis 

enow, 
However that might chance ! but an 

he work, 
Like any pigeon will I cram his crop, 
And sleeker shall he shine than any 

hog." 

Then Lancelot standing near, " Sir 

Seneschal, 
Sleuth-hound thou knowest, and gray, 

and all the hounds ; 
A horse thou knowest, a man thou dost 

not know : 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



217 



Broad brows and fair, a fluent hair 

and fine, 
High nose, a nostril large and fine, 

and hands 
Large, fair and fine ! — some young 

lad's mystery — 
But, or from sheepcot or king's hall, 

the boy 
Is noble-natured. Treat him with all 

grace, 
Lest he should come to shame thy 

judging of him." 

Then Kay, " What murmurest thou 

of mystery ? 
Think ye this fellow will poison the 

King's dish ? 
Nay, for he spake too fool-like : 

mystery ! 
Tut, an the lad were noble, he had 

ask'd 
For horse and armor: fair and fine, 

forsooth ! 
Sir Fine-face, Sir Fair-hands 1 but see 

thou to it 
That thine own fineness, Lancelot, 

some fine day 
Undo thee not — and leave my man 

to me." 

So Gareth all for glory underwent 
The sooty yoke of kitchen-vassalage ; 
Ate with young lads his portion by 

the door, 
And couch'd at night with grimy 

kitchen-knaves. 
And Lancelot ever spake him pleas- 
antly, 
But Kay the seneschal who loved him 

not 
Would hustle and harry him, and 

labor him 
Beyond his comrade of the hearth, 

and set 
To turn the broach, draw water, or 

hew wood, 
Or grosser tasks ; and Gareth bow'd 

himself 
With all obedience to the King, and 

wrought 
All kind of service with a noble 

ease 



That graced the lowliest act in doing 

it. 
And when the thralls had talk among 

themselves, 
And one would praise the love that 

linkt the King 
And Lancelot — how the King had 

saved his life 
In battle twice, and Lancelot once the 

King's — 
For Lancelot was the first in Tourna* 

ment, 
But Arthur mightiest on the battle- 
field— 
Gareth was glad. Or if some other 

told, 
How once the wandering forester at 

dawn, 
Far over the blue tarns and hazy 

seas, 
On Caer-Eryri's highest found the 

King, 
A naked babe, of whom the Prophet 

spake, 
" He passes to the Isle Avilion, 
He passes and is heal'd and cannot 

die " — 
Gareth was glad. But if their talk 

were foul, 
Then would he whistle rapid as any 

lark, 
Or carol some old roundelay, and so 

loud 
That first they mock'd, but, after, 

reverenced him. 
Or Gareth telling some prodigious tale 
Of knights, who sliced a red life-bub- 
bling way 
Thro' twenty folds of twisted dragon, 

held 
All in a gap-mouth'd circle his good 

mates 
Lying or sitting round him, idle hands, 
Charm'd; till Sir Kay, the seneschaL 

would come 
Blustering upon them, like a sudden 

wind 
Among dead leaves, and drive them 

all apart. 
Or when the thralls had sport among 

themselves, 
So there were any trial of mastery, 



218 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



He, by two yards in casting bar or 

stone 
Was counted best; and if tbere 

chanced a joust, 
So that Sir Kay nodded him leave to 

go, 
Would hurry thither, and when he 

saw the knights 
Clash like the coming and retiring 

wave, 
And the spear spring, and good horse 

reel, the boy 
Was half beyond himself for ecstasy. 

So for a month he wrought among 
the thralls ; 

But in the weeks that follow'd, the 
good Queen, 

Repentant of the word she made him 
swear, 

And saddening in her childless castle, 
sent, 

Between the in-crescent and de-cres- 
cent moon, 

Arms for her son, and loosed him from 
his vow. 

This, Gareth hearing from a squire 

of Lot 
With whom he used to play at tourney 

once, 
When both were children, and in 

lonely haunts 
Would scratch a ragged oval on the 

sand, 
And each at either dash from either 

end — 
Shame never made girl redder than 

Gareth joy. 
He laugh'd ; he sprang. " Out of the 

smoke, at once 
I leap from Satan's foot to Peter's 

knee — 
These news be mine, none other's — 

nay, the King's — 
Descend into the city : " whereon he 

sought 
The King alone, and found, and told 

him all. 

"I have stagger'd thy strong Ga- 
wain in a tilt 



For pastime; yea, he said it: joust 

can I. 
Make me thy knight — in secret! let 

my name 
Be hidd'n, and give me the first quest, 

I spring 
Like flame from ashes." 

Here the King's calm eye 
Fell on, and check'd, and made him 

flush, and bow 
Lowly, to kiss his hand, who answer'd 

him, 
" Son, the good mother let me know 

thee here, 
And sent her wish that I would yield 

thee thine. 
Make thee my knight 1 my knights 

are sworn to vows 
Of utter hardihood, utter gentleness, 
And, loving, utter faithfulness in love, 
And uttermost obedience to the King." 

Then Gareth, lightly springing from 
his knees, 

" My King, for hardihood I can prom- 
ise thee. 

For uttermost obedience make de- 
mand 

Of whom ye gave me to, the Seneschal, 

No mellow master of the meats and 
drinks ! 

And as for love, God wot, I love not 

yet, 

But love I shall, God willing." 

And the King — 
" Make thee my knight in secret 1 yea, 

but he, 
Our noblest brother, and our truest 

man, 
And one with me in all, he needs 

must know." 

" Let Lancelot know, my King, let 
Lancelot know, 
Thy noblest and thy truest ! " 

And the King — 
" But wherefore would ye men should 
wonder at you ? 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



219 



Nay, rather for the sake of me, their 

King, 
And the deed's sake my knighthood 

do the deed, 
Than to be noised of." 

Merrily Gareth ask'd, 
w Have I not earn'd my cake in baking 

of it? 
Let be my name until I make my 

name ! 
My deeds will speak : it is but for a 

day." 
So with a kindly hand on Gareth 's 

arm 
Smiled the great King, and half- 

unwillingly 
Loving his lusty youthhood yielded 

to him. 
Then, after summoning Lancelot 

privily, 
" I have given him the first quest : he 

is not proven. 
Look therefore when he calls for this 

in hall, 
Thou get to horse and follow him far 

away. 
Cover the lions on thy shield, and see 
Far as thou mayest, he be nor ta'en 

nor slain." 

Then that same day there past into 
the hall 

A damsel of high lineage, and a brow 

May-blossom, and a cheek of apple- 
blossom, 

Hawk-eyes ; and lightly was her slen- 
der nose 

Tip-tilted like the petal of a flower ; 

She into hall past with her page and 
cried, 

" O King, for thou hast driven the 

foe without, 
See to the foe within ! bridge, ford, 

beset 
By bandits, everyone that owns a 

tower 
The Lord for half a league. Why sit 

ye there ? 
Rest would I not, Sir King, an I were 

king, 



Till ev'n the lonest hold were all as 
free 

From cursed bloodshed, as thine altar- 
cloth 

From that best blood it is a sin to 
spill." 

" Comfort thyself," said Arthur, "I 

nor mine 
Rest: so my knighthood keep the 

vows they swore, 
The wastest moorland of our realm 

shall be 
Safe, damsel, as the centre of this hall. 
What is thy name ? thy need ? " 

" My name ? " she said — 

" Lynette my name ; noble ; my need, 
a knight 

To combat for my sister, Lyonors, 

A lady of high lineage, of great lands, 

And comely, yea, and comelier than 
myself. 

She lives in Castle Perilous : a river 

Runs in three loops about her living- 
place; 

And o'er it are three passings, and 
three knights 

Defend the passings, brethren, and a 
fourth 

And of that four the mightiest, holds 
her stay'd 

In her own castle, and so besieges her 

To break her will, and make her wed 
with him : 

And but delays his purport till thou 
send 

To do the battle with him, thy chief 
man 

Sir Lancelot whom he trusts to over- 
throw, 

Then wed, with glory : but she will 
not wed 

Save whom she loveth, or a holy life. 

Now therefore have I come for 
Lancelot." 

Then Arthur mindful of Sir Gareth 
ask'd, 
" Damsel, ye know this Order lives to 
crush 



220 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



All wrongers of the Realm. But say, 

these four, 
Who be they 1 What the fashion of 

the men 1 " 

" They be of foolish fashion, Sir 
King, 

The fashion of that old knight- 
errantry 

Who ride abroad and do but what 
they will ; 

Courteous or bestial from the moment, 
such 

As have nor law nor king ; and three 
of these 

Proud in their fantasy call themselves 
the Day, 

Morning-Star, and Noon-Sun, and 
Evening-Star, 

Being strong fools ; and never a whit 
more wise 

The fourth who alway rideth arm'd 
in black, 

A huge man-beast of boundless sav- 
agery. 

He names himself the Night, and 
oftener Death, 

And wears a helmet mounted with a 
skull, 

And bears a skeleton figured on his 
arms, 

To show that who may slay or scape 
the three 

Slain by himself shall enter endless 
night. 

And all these four be fools, but mighty 
men, 

And therefore am I come for Lance- 
lot." 

Hereat Sir Gareth calPd from where 
he rose, 

A head with kindling eyes above the 
throng, 

" A boon, Sir King — this quest ! " 
then — for he mark'd 

Kay near him groaning like a wounded 
bull — 

" Yea, King, thou knowest thy kitchen- 
knave am I, 

And mighty thro' thy meats and drinks 
am I. 



And I can topple over a hundred such. 

Thy promise, King," and Arthur glanc- 
ing at him, 

Brought down a momentary brow. 
" Rough, sudden, 

And pardonable, worthy to be knight — 

Go, therefore," and all hearers were 
amazed. 

But on the damsel's forehead shame, 
pride, wrath 

Slew the May-white : she lifted either 
arm, 

" Fie on thee, King ! I ask'd for thy 
chief knight, 

And thou hast given me but a kitchen- 
knave." 

Then ere a man in hall could stay her, 
turn'd, 

Fled down the lane of access to the 
King, 

Took horse, descended the slope street, 
and past 

The weird white gate, and paused with- 
out, beside 

The field of tourney, murmuring 
" kitchen-knave." 

Now two great entries open'd from 

the hall, 
At one end one, that gave upon a 

range 
Of level pavement where the King 

would pace 
At sunrise, gazing over plain and 

wood; 
And down from this a lordly stairway 

sloped 
Till lost in blowing trees and tops of 

towers ; 
And out by this main doorway past 

the King. 
But one was counter to the hearth, 

and rose 
High that the highest-crested helm 

could ride 
Therethro' nor graze : and by this entry 

fled 
The damsel in her wrath, and on to 

this 
Sir Gareth strode, and saw without 

the door 






GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



221 



King Arthur's gift, the worth of half 

a town, 
A warhorse of the best, and near it 

s.tood 
The two that out of north had fol- 

low'd him : 
This bare a maiden shield, a casque ; 

that held 
The horse, the spear ; whereat Sir 

Gareth loosed 
A cloak that dropt from collar-bone 

to heel, 
A cloth of roughest web, and cast it 

down, 
And from it like a fuel-smother'd fire, 
That lookt half-dead, brake bright, and 

flash'd as those 
Dull-coated things, that making slide 

apart 
Their dusk wing-cases, all beneath 

there burns 
A jewell'd harness, ere they pass and 

fly- 
So Gareth ere he parted flash'd in 

arms. 
Then as he donn'd the helm, and took 

the shield 
And mounted horse and graspt a 

spear, of grain 
Storm-strengthen'd on a windy site, 

and tipt 
With trenchant steel, around him 

slowly prest 
The people, while from out of kitchen 

came 
The thralls in throng, and seeing who 

had work'd 
Lustier than any, and whom they could 

but love, 
Mounted in arms, threw up their caps 

and cried, 
"God bless the King, and all his 

fellowship ! " 
And on thro' lanes of shouting Gareth 

rode 
Down the slope street, and past with- 
out the gate. 

So Gareth past with joy; but as the 
cur 
Pluckt from the cur he fights with, 
ere his cause 



Be cool'd by fighting, follows, being 

named, 
His owner, but remembers all, and 

growls 
Remembering, so Sir Kay beside the 

door 
Mutter'd in scorn of Gareth whom he 

used 
To harry and hustle. 

" Bound upon a quest 
With horse and arms — the King hath 

past his time — 
My scullion knave ! Thralls to your 

work again, 
For an your fire be low ye kindle 

mine ! 
Will there be dawn in West and eve 

in East 1 
Begone ! — my knave ! — belike and 

like enow 
Some old head-blow not heeded in his 

youth 
So shook his wits they wander in his 

prime — 
Crazed ! how the villain lifted up his 

voice, 
Nor shamed to bawl himself a kitchen- 
knave. 
Tut : he was tame and meek enow with 

me, 
Till peacock'd up with Lancelot's 

noticing. 
Well — I will after my loud knave, 

and learn 
Whether he know me for his master 

yet. 
Out of the smoke he came, and so my 

lance 
Hold, by God's grace, he shall into 

the mire — 
Thence, if the King awaken from his 

craze, 
Into the smoke again." 

But Lancelot said, 
" Kay, wherefore wilt thou go against 

the King, 
For that did never he whereon ye rail, 
But ever meekly served the King in 

thee? 
Abide : take counsel ; for this lad is 

great 



222 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



And lusty, and knowing both of lance 

and sword." 
" Tut, tell not me," said Kay, "ye are 

overfine 
To mar stout knaves with foolish 

courtesies : " 
Then mounted, on thro* silent faces 

rode 
Down the slope city, and out beyond 

the gate. 

But by the field of tourney linger- 
ing yet 

Mutter'd the damsel, " Wherefore did 
the lung 

Scorn me ? for, were Sir Lancelot 
lackt, at least 

He might have yielded to me one of 
those 

Who tilt for lady's love and glory 
here, 

Rather than — O sweet heaven! 
fie upon him — 

His kitchen-knave." 

To whom Sir Gareth drew 

(And there were none but few goodlier 
than he) 

Shining in arms, " Damsel, the quest 
is mine. 

Lead, and I follow." She thereat, as 
one 

That smells a f oul-flesh'd agaric in the 
holt, 

And deems it carrion of some wood- 
land thing, 

Or shrew, or weasel, nipt her slender 
nose 

With petulant thumb and finger, 
shrilling, " Hence ! 

Avoid, thou smellest all of kitchen- 
grease. 

And look who comes behind/' for 
there was Kay. 

"Knowest thou not me ? thy master ? 
I am Kay. 

We lack thee by the hearth." 

And Gareth to him, 
a Master no more ! too well I know 
thee, ay — 



The most ungentle knight in Arthur's 

hall." 
" Have at thee then," said Kay : they 

shock'd, and Kay 
Fell shoulder-slipt, and Gareth cried 

again, 
" Lead, and I follow," and fast away 

she fled. 

But after sod and shingle ceased to 

fly 

Behind her, and the heart of her good 

horse 
Was nigh to burst with violence of the 

beat, 
Perforce she stay'd, and overtaken 

spoke. 

" What doest thou, scullion, in my 

fellowship ? 
Deem'st thou that I accept thee aught 

the more 
Or love thee better, that by some 

device 
Full cowardly, or by mere unhappi- 

ness, 
Thou hast overthrown and slain thy 

master — thou ! — 
Dish-washer and broach-turner, loon ! 

— to me 
Thou smellest all of kitchen as be- 
fore." 

" Damsel," Sir Gareth answer'd 

gently, " say 
Whate'er ye will, but whatsoe'er ye 

say, 
I leave not till I finish this fair quest, 
Or die therefore." 

" Ay, wilt thou finish it ? 
Sweet lord, how like a noble knight he 

talks ! 
The listening rogue hath caught the 

manner of it. 
But, knave, anon thou shalt be met 

with, knave, 
And then by such a one that thou for 

all 
The kitchen brewis that was eversupt 
Shalt not once dare to look him in the 

face." 






GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



223 



" I shall assay," said Gareth with a 

smile 
That madden'd her, and away she 

flash'd again 
Down the long avenues of a boundless 

wood, 
And Gareth following was again be- 

knaved. 

" Sir Kitchen-knave, I have miss'd 

the only way 
Where Arthur's men are set along the 

wood ; 
The wood is nigh as full of thieves as 

leaves : 
If both be slain, I am rid of thee ; but 

yet, 
Sir Scullion, canst thou use that spit 

of thine 1 
Fight, an thou canst : I have miss'd 

the only way." 

So till the dusk that follow'd even- 
song 

Rode on the two, reviler and reviled ; 

Then after one long slope was 
mounted, saw, 

Bowl-shaped, thro' tops of many thou- 
sand pines 

A gloomy-gladed hollow slowly sink 

To westward — in the deeps whereof 
a mere, 

Bound as the red eye of an Eagle- 
owl, 

Under the half-dead sunset glared ; 
and shouts 

Ascended, and there brake a serving- 
man 

Flying from out the black wood, and 
crying, 

" They have bound my lord to cast 
him in the mere." 

Then Gareth, " Bound am I to right 
the wrong'd, 

But straitlier bound am I to bide with 
thee." 

And when the damsel spake contempt- 
uously, 

"Lead, and I follow," Gareth cried 
again, 

"Follow, I lead ! " so down among the 
pines 



He plunged ; and there, blackshadow'd 

nigh the mere, 
And mid-thigh-deep in bulrushes and 

reed, 
Saw six tall men haling a seventh 

along, 
A stone about his neck to drown him 

in it. 
Three with good blows he quieted, but 

three 
Fled thro' the pines; and Gareth loosed 

the stone 
From off his neck, then in the mere 

beside 
Tumbled it; oilily bubbled up the 

mere. 
Last, Gareth loosed his bonds and on 

free feet 
Set him, a stalwart Baron, Arthur's 

friend. 



" Well that ye came, or else these 

caitiff rogues 
Had wreak'd themselves on me ; good 

cause is theirs 
To hate me, for my wont hath ever 

been 
To catch my thief, and then like ver- 
min here 
Drown him, and with a stone about 

his neck ; 
And under this wan water many of 

them 
Lie rotting, but at night let go the 

stone, 
And rise, and flickering in a grimly 

light 
Dance on the mere. Good now, ye 

have saved a life 
Worth somewhat as the cleanser of 

this wood. 
And fain would I reward thee worship- 

fully. 
What guerdon will ye 1 " 

Gareth sharply spake, 
"None! for the deed's sake have I 

done the deed, 
In uttermost obedience to the King. 
But wilt thou yield this damsel har- 
borage 1 " 



224 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



Whereat the Baron saying, " I well 
believe 

You be of Arthur's Table," a light 
laugh 

Broke from Lynette, " Ay, truly of a 
truth, 

And in a sort, being Arthur's kitchen- 
knave ! — 

But deem not I accept thee aught the 
more, 

Scullion, for running sharply with thy 
spit 

Down on a rout of craven foresters. 

A thresher with his flail had scatter' d 
them. 

Nay — for thou smellest of the kitchen 
still. 

But an this lord will yield us harbor- 
age, 

Well." 

So she spake. A league beyond 

the wood, 
All in a full-fair manor and a rich, 
His towers where that day a feast had 

been 
Held in high wall, and many a viand 

left, 
And many a costly cate, received the 

three. 
And there they placed a peacock in 

his pride 
Before the damsel, and the Baron 

set 
Gareth beside her, but at once she 

rose. 

"Meseems, that here is much dis- 
courtesy, 

Setting this knave, Lord Baron, at my 
side. 

Hear me — this morn I stood in 
Arthur's hall, 

And pray'd the King would grant me 
Lancelot 

To fight the brotherhood of Day and 
Night — 

The last a monster unsubduable 

Of any save of him for whom I 
call'd — 

Suddenly bawls this frontless kitchen- 
knave, 



'The quest is mine; thy kitchen- 
knave am I, 

And mighty thro' thy meats and 
drinks am I.' 

Then Arthur all at once gone mad 
replies, 

' Go therefore,' and so gives the quest 
to him — 

Him — here — a villain fitter to stick 
swine 

Than ride abroad redressing women's 
wrong, 

Or sit beside a noble gentlewoman." 

Then half -ashamed and part- 
amazed, the lord 

Now look'd at one and now at other, 
left 

The damsel by the peacock in his 
pride, 

And, seating Gareth at another board, 

Sat down beside him, ate and then 
began. 

" Friend, whether thou be kitchen- 
knave, or not, 

Or whether it be the maiden's fantasy, 

And whether she be mad, or else the 
King, 

Or both or neither, or thyself be mad, 

I ask not : but thou strikest a strong 
stroke, 

For strong thou art and goodly there- 
withal, 

And saver of my life ; and therefore 
now, 

For here be mighty men to joust with, 
weigh 

Whether thou wilt not with thy dam- 
sel back 

To crave again Sir Lancelot of the 
King. 

Thy pardon; I but speak for thine 
avail, 

The saver of my life." 

And Gareth said, 
" Full pardon, but I follow up the 

quest, 
Despite of Day and Night and Death 

and Hell." 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



225 



So when, next morn, the lord whose 

life he saved 
Had, some brief space, convey'd them 

on their way 
And left them with God-speed, Sir 

Gareth spake, 
" Lead, and I follow." Haughtily she 

replied, 

• * I fly no more : I allow thee for an 

hour. 
Lion and stoat have isled together, 

knave, 
In time of flood. Nay, furthermore, 

methinks 
Some ruth is mine for thee. Back 

wilt thou, fool ? 
For hard by here is one will overthrow 
And slay thee : then will I to court 

again, 
And shame the King for only yield- 
ing me 
My champion from the ashes of his 

hearth/' 

To whom Sir Gareth answer'd cour- 
teously, 

" Say thou thy say, and I will do my 
deed. 

Allow me for mine hour, and thou 
wilt find 

My fortunes all as fair as hers who lay 

Among the ashes and wedded the 
King's son." 

Then to the shore of one of those 

long loops 
Wherethro' the serpent river coiPd, 

they came. 
Rough-thicketed were the banks and 

steep ; the stream 
Full, narrow ; this a bridge of single 

arc 
Took at a leap; and on the further 

side 
Arose a silk pavilion, gay vvith gold 
In streaks and rays, and all Lent-lily 

in hue, 
Save that the dome was purple, and 

above, 
Crimson, a slender banneret fluttering. 



And therebefore the lawless warrior 

paced 
Unarm'd, and calling, "Damsel, is 

this he, 
The champion thou hast brought from 

Arthur's hall % 
For whom we let thee pass." " Nay, 

nay," she said, 
" Sir Morning-Star. The King in utter 

scorn 
Of thee and thy much folly hath sent 

thee here 
His kitchen-knave : and look thou to 

thyself : 
See that he fall not on thee suddenly, 
And slay thee unarm'd : he is not 

knight but knave." 

Then at his call, " O daughters of 

the Dawn, 
And servants of the Morning-Star, 

approach, 
Arm me," from out the silken curtain- 
folds 
Bare-footed and bare-headed three 

fair girls 
In gilt and rosy raiment came : their 

feet 
In dewy grasses glisten'd; and the 

hair 
All over glanced with dewdrop or with 

gem 
Like sparkles in the stone Avanturine. 
These arm'd him in blue arms, and 

gave a shield 
Blue also, and thereon the morning 

star. 
And Gareth silent gazed upon the 

knight, 
Who stood a moment ere his horse 

was brought, 
Glorying ; and in the stream beneath 

him, shone 
Immingled with Heaven's azure wav 

eringly, 
The. gay pavilion and the naked 

feet, 
His arms, the rosy raiment, and the 

star. 

Then she that watch'd him 
" Wherefore stare ye so ? 



226 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



Thou shakest in thy fear : there yet is 

time: 
Flee down the valley before he get to 

horse. 
Who will cry shame ? Thou art not 

knight but knave." 

Said Gareth, "Damsel, whether 
knave or knight, 

Far liefer had I fight a score of times 

Than hear thee so missay me and re- 
vile. 

Fair words were best for him who 
fights for thee ; 

But truly foul are better, for they 
send 

That strength of anger thro' mine 
arms, I know 

That I shall overthrow him." 

And he that bore 
The star, being mounted, cried from 

o'er the bridge, 
" A kitchen-knave, and sent in scorn 

of me ! 
Such fight not I, but answer scorn 

with scorn. 
For this were shame to do him further 

wrong 
Than set him on his feet, and take his 

horse 
And arms, and so return him to the 

King. 
Come, therefore, leave thy lady lightly, 

knave. 
Avoid : for it beseemeth not a knave 
To ride with such a lady." 

"Dog, thou liest. 

I spring from loftier lineage than 
thine own." 

He spake , and all at fiery speed the 
two 

Shock'd on the central bridge, and 
either spear 

Bent but not brake, and either knight 
at once, 

Hurl'd as a stone from out of a cata- 
pult 

Beyond his horse's crupper and the 
bridge, 



Fell, as if dead ; but quickly rose and 

drew, 
And Gareth lash'd so fiercely with his 

brand 
He drave his enemy backward down 

the bridge, 
The damsel crying, " Well-stricken, 

kitchen-knave ! " 
Till Gareth's shield was cloven; but 

one stroke 
Laid him that clove it grovelling on 

the ground. 

Then cried the f all'n, " Take not my 

life : I yield." 
And Gareth, " So this damsel ask it 

of me 
Good — I accord it easily as a grace." 
She reddening, " Insolent scullion : I 

of thee? 
I bound to thee for any favor ask'd! " 
"Then shall he die." And Gareth 

there unlaced 
His helmet as to slay him, but she 

shriek'd, 
"Be not so hardy, scullion, as to 

slay 
One nobler than thyself." " Damsel, 

thy charge 
Is an abounding pleasure to me. 

Knight, 
Thy life is thine at her command. 

Arise 
And quickly pass to Arthur's hall, 

and say 
His kitchen-knave hath sent thee. 

See thou crave 
His pardon for thy breaking of his 

laws. 
Myself, when I return, will plead for 

thee. 
Thy shield is mine — farewell ; and, 

damsel, thou, 
Lead, and I follow." 

And fast away she fled. 
Then when he came upon her, spake, 

" Methought, 
Knave, when I watch'd thee striking 

on the bridge 
The savor of thy kitchen came upon 

me 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



227 



A little faintlier: but the wind hath 

changed : 
I scent it twenty-fold." And then she 

sang, 
"'0 morning star' (not that tall felon 

there 
Whom thou by sorcery or unhappiness 
Or some device, hast foully over- 
thrown), 
'0 morning star that smilest in the 

blue, 
O star, my morning dream hath 

proven true, 
Smile sweetly, thou ! my love hath 

smiled on me.' 

" But thou begone, take counsel, 

and away, 
For hard by here is one that guards a 

ford — 
The second brother in their fool's 

parable — 
Will pay thee all thy wages, and to 

boot. 
Care not for shame : thou art not 

knight but knave." 

To whom Sir Gareth answer'd, 

laughingly, 
" Parables ? Hear a parable of the 

knave. 
When I was kitchen-knave among the 

rest 
Fierce was the hearth, and one of my 

co-mates 
Own'd a rough dog, to whom he cast 

his coat, 
' Guard it/ and there was none to 

meddle with it. 
And such a coat art thou, and thee 

the King 
Gave me to guard, and such a dog 

am I, 
To worry, and not to flee — and — 

knight or knave — 
The knave that doth thee service as 

full knight 
Is all as good, meseems, as any knight 
Toward thy sister's freeing." 

" Ay, Sir Knave ! 
Ay, knave, because thou strikest as a 
knight, 



Being but knave, I hate thee all the 
more." 

" Fair damsel, you should worship 
me the more, 
That, being but knave, I throw thine 
enemies." 

" Ay, ay," she said, " but thou shalt 
meet thy match." 

So when they touch'd the second 

river-loop, 
Huge on a huge red horse, and all in 

mail 
Burnish'd to blinding, shone the Noon- 
day Sun 
Beyond a raging shallow. As if the 

flower, 
That blows a globe of after arrowlets, 
Ten thousand-fold had grown, flash'd 

the fierce shield, 
All sun ; and Gareth's eyes had flying 

blots 
Before them when he turn'd from 

watching him. 
He from beyond the roaring shallow 

roar'd, 
" What doest thou, brother, in my 

marches here 1 " 
And she athwart the shallow shrill'd 

again, 
" Here is a kitchen-knave from 

Arthur's hall 
Hath overthrown thy brother, and 

hath his arms." 
"Ugh!" cried the Sun, and vizoring 

up a red 
And cipher face of rounded foolish- 
ness, 
Push'd horse across the foamings of 

the ford, 
Whom Gareth met midstream : no 

room was there 
For lance or tourney-skill : four 

strokes they struck 
With sword, and these were mighty ; 

the new knight 
Had fear he might be shamed ; but as 

the Sun 
Heaved up a ponderous arm to strike 

the fifth, 



228 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



The hoof of his horse slipt in the 

stream, the stream 
Descended, and the Sun was wash'd 

away. 

Then Gareth laid his lance athwart 

the ford ; 
So drew him home ; but he that fought 

no more, 
As being all bone-batter'd on the rock, 
Yielded ; and Gareth sent him to the 

King. 
" Myself when I return will plead for 

thee." 
"Lead, and I follow." Quietly she 

led. 
" Hath not the good wind, damsel, 

changed again 1 " 
" Nay, not a point : nor art thou victor 

here. 
There lies a ridge of slate across the 

ford; 
His horse thereon stumbled — ay, for 

I saw it. 

" ' O Sun ' (not this strong fool 

whom thou, Sir Knave, 
Hast overthrown thro' mere unhappi- 

ness), 
' Sun, that wakenest all to bliss or 

pain, 
moon, that layest all to sleep again, 
Shine sweetly: twice my love hath 

smiled on me.' 

" What knowest thou of lovesong 

or of love 1 
Nay, nay, God wot, so thou wert nobly 

born, 
Thou hast a pleasant presence. Yea, 

perchance, — 

" ' O dewy flowers that open to the 

sun, 
dewy flowers that close when day is 

done, 
Blow sweetly: twice my love hath 

smiled on me.' 

" What knowest thou of flowers, 
except, belike, 



To garnish meats with ? hath not our 
good King 

Who lent me thee, the flower of 
kitchendom, 

A foolish love for flowers ? what stick 
ye round 

The pasty 1 wherewithal deck the 
boar's head 1 

Flowers 1 nay, the boar hath rose- 
maries and bay. 

" ■ birds, that warble to the morn- 
ing sky, 
O birds that warble as the day goes 

by, 

Sing sweetly : twice my love hath 
smiled on me.' 

"What knowest thou of birds, lark, 

mavis, merle, 
Linnet 1 what dream ye when they 

utter forth 
May-music growing with the growing 

light, 
Their sweet sun-worship ? these be for 

the snare 
(So runs thy fancy) these be for the 

spit, 
Larding and basting. See thou have 

not now 
Larded thy last, except thou turn and 

fly- 

There stands the third fool of their 
allegory." 

For there beyond a bridge of treble 

bow, 
All in a rose-red from the west, and 

all 
Naked it seem'd, and glowing in the 

broad 
Deep-dimpled current underneath, the 

knight, 
That named himself the Star of 

Evening, stood. 

And Gareth, " Wherefore waits the 

madman there 
Naked in open dayshine 1 " " Nay," 

she cried, 
"Not naked, only wrapt in harden'd 

skins 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



229 



That fit him like his own ; and so ye 

cleave 
His armor off him, these will turn the 

blade." 

Then the third brother shouted o'er 

the bridge, 
" brother-star, why shine ye here so 

low? 
Thy ward is higher up : but have ye 

slain 
The damsel's champion ? " and the 

damsel cried, 

"No star of thine, but shot from 

Arthur's heaven 
With all disaster unto thine and thee ! 
For both thy younger brethren have 

gone down 
Before this youth ; and so wilt thou, 

Sir Star; 
Art thou not old % " 

" Old, damsel, old and hard, 
Old, with the might and breath of 

twenty boys." 
Said Gareth, " Old, and over-bold in 

brag! 
But that same strength which threw 

the Morning Star 
Can throw the Evening." 

Then that other blew 
A hard and deadly note upon the horn. 
" Approach and arm me ! " With slow 

steps from out 
An old storm-beaten, russet, many- 

stain'd 
Pavilion, forth a grizzled damsel 

came, 
And arm'd him in old arms, and 

brought a helm 
With but a drying evergreen for crest, 
And gave a shield whereon the Star of 

Even 
Half-tarnish'd and half-bright, his 

emblem, shone. 
But when it glitter'd o'er the saddle- 
bow, 
They madly hurl'd together on the 

bridge ; [ 



And Gareth overthrew him, lighted, 

drew, 
There met him drawn, and overthrew 

him again, 
But up like fire he started: and as 

oft 
As Gareth brought him grovelling on 

his knees, 
So many a time he vaulted up again ; 
Till Gareth panted hard, and his great 

heart, 
Foredooming all his trouble was in 

vain, 
Labor'd within him, for he seem'd as 

one 
That all in later, sadder age begins 
To war against ill uses of a life, 
But these from all his life arise, and 

cry, 
"Thou hast made us lords, and canst 

not put us down ! " 
He half despairs ; so Gareth seem'd to 

strike 
Vainly, the damsel clamoring all the 

while, 
"Well done, knave-knight, well 

stricken, O good knight- 
knave — 
O knave, as noble as any of all the 

knights — 
Shame me not, shame me not. I have 

prophesied — 
Strike, thou art worthy of the Table 

Round — 
His arms are old, he trusts the hard- 

en'd skin — 
Strike — strike — the wind will never 

change again." 
And Gareth hearing ever stronglier 

smote, 
And hew'd great pieces of his armor 

off him, 
But lash'd in vain against the harden'd 

skin, 
And could not wholly bring him 

under, more 
Than loud Southwesterns, rolling 

ridge on ridge, 
The buoy that rides at sea, And dips 

and springs 
For ever ; till at length Sir Gareth's 
brand 



230 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



Clash'd his, and brake it utterly to the 

hilt. 
" I have thee now ; " but forth that 

other sprang, 
And, all unknightlike, writhed his 

wiry arms 
Around him, till he felt, despite his 

mail, 
Strangled, but straining ev'n his utter- 
most 
Cast, and so hurPd him headlong o'er 

the bridge 
Down to the river, sink or swim, and 

cried, 
" Lead, and I follow." 

But the damsel said, 
" I lead no longer ; ride thou at my 

side ; 
Thou art the kingliest of all kitchen- 
knaves. 

" ' trefoil, sparkling on the rainy 

plain, 
rainbow with three colors after rain, 
Shine sweetly : thrice my love hath 

smiled on me.' 

" Sir, — and, good faith, I fain had 

added — Knight, 
But that I heard thee call thyself a 

knave, — 
Shamed am I that I so rebuked, 

reviled, 
Missaid thee ; noble I am ; and 

thought the King 
Scorn'd me and mine ; and now thy 

pardon, friend, 
For thou hast ever answer'd cour- 
teously, 
And wholly bold thou art, and meek 

withal 
As any of Arthur's best, but, being 

knave, 
Hast mazed my wit : I marvel what 

thou art. 

" Damsel," he said, "you be not all 
to blame, 
Saving that you mistrusted our good 
King 



Would handle scorn, or yield you, 

asking, one 
Not fit to cope your quest. You said 

your say ; 
Mine answer was my deed. Good 

sooth! I hold 
He scarce is knight, yea but half -man, 

nor meet 
To fight for gentle damsel, he, who 

lets 
His heart be stirr'd with any foolish 

heat 
At any gentle damsel's waywardness. 
Shamed ? care not ! thy foul sayings 

fought for me : 
And seeing now thy words are fair, 

methinks 
There rides no knight, not Lancelot, 

his great self, 
Hath force to quell me." 

Nigh upon that hour 

When the lone hern forgets his mel- 
ancholy, 

Lets down bis other leg, and stretch- 
ing, dreams 

Of goodly supper in the distant pool, 

Then turn'd the noble damsel smiling 
at him, 

And told him of a cavern hard at 
hand, 

Where bread and baken meats and 
good red wine 

Of Southland, which the Lady Lyo- 
nors 

Had sent her coming champion, waited 
him. 

Anon they past a narrow comb 

wherein 
Were slabs of rock with figures, 

knights on horse 
Sculptured, and deckt in slowly-wan- 
ing hues. 
" Sir Knave, my knight, a hermit once 

was here, 
Whose holy hand hath fashion'd on 

the rock 
The war of Time against the soul of 

man. 
And yon four fools have suck'd their 

allegory 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



231 



From these damp walls, and taken 
but the form. 

Know ye not these ? " and Gareth 
lookt and read — 

In letters like to those the vexillary 

Hath left crag-carven o'er the stream- 
ing Gelt — 

" Phosphorus," then " Meridies " — 
"Hesperus " — 

"Nox" — "Mors," beneath five fig- 
ures, armed men, 

Slab after slab, their faces forward 
all, 

And running down the Soul, a Shape 
that fled 

With broken wings, torn raiment and 
loose hair, 

For help and shelter to the hermit's 
cave. 

"Follow the faces, and we find it. 
Look, 

Who comes behind 1 " 

For one — delay'd at first 
Thro' helping back the dislocated Kay 
To Camelot, then by what thereafter 

chanced, 
The damsel's headlong error thro' the 

wood — 
Sir Lancelot, having swum the river- 
loops — 
His blue shield-lions cover'd — softly 

drew 
Behind the twain, and when he saw 

the star 
Gleam, on Sir Gareth's turning to 

him, cried, 
" Stay, felon-knight, I avenge me for 

my friend." 
And Gareth crying prick'd against the 

cry; 
But when they closed — in a moment 

— at one touch 
Of that skill'd spear, the wonder of 

the world — 
Went sliding down so easily, and fell, 
That when he found the grass within 

his hands 
He laugh'd ; the laughter jarr'd upon 

Lynette : 
Harshly she ask'd him, " Shamed and 

overthrown, 



And tumbled back into the kitchen- 
knave, 
Why laugh ye ? that ye blew your 

boast in vain ? " 
"Nay, noble damsel, but that I, the 

son 
Of old King Lot and good Queen Bel- 

licent, 
And victor of the bridges and the ford, 
And knight of Arthur, here lie thrown 

by whom 
I know not, all thro' mere unhappi- 

ness — 
Device and sorcery and unhappi- 

ness — 
Out, sword ; we are thrown ! " And 

Lancelot answer'd, " Prince, 
O Gareth — thro' the mere unhappi- 

ness 
Of one who came to help thee, not to 

harm, 
Lancelot, and all as glad to find thee 

whole, 
As on the day when Arthur knighted 

him." 

Then Gareth, "Thou— Lancelot ! 

— thine the hand 
That threw me 1 An some chance to 

mar the boast 
Thy brethren of thee make — which 

could not chance — 
Had sent thee down before a lesser 

spear, 
Shamed had I been, and sad — 

Lancelot — thou ! " 

Whereat the maiden, petulant, 

" Lancelot, 
Why came ye not, when call'd ? and 

wherefore now 
Come ye, not call'd 1 I gloried in my 

knave, 
Who being still rebuked, would answer 

still 
Courteous as any knight — but now, 

if knight, 
The marvel dies, and leaves me fool'd 

and trick'd, 
And only wondering wherefore play'd 

upon: 



232 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



And doubtful whether I and mine be 

scorn'd. 
Where should be truth if not in 

Arthur's hall, 
In Arthur's presence ' l . Knight, 

knave, prince and fool, 
I hate thee and for ever." 



And Lancelot said, 
" Blessed be thou, Sir Gareth ! knight 

art thou 
To the King's best wish. O damsel, 

be you wise 
To call him shamed, who is but over- 
thrown ? 
Thrown have I been, nor once, but 

many a time. 
Victor from vanquish'd issues at the 

last, 
And overthrower from being over- 
thrown. 
With sword we have not striven ; and 

thy good horse 
And thou are weary ; yet not less I 

felt 
Thy manhood thro' that wearied lance 

of thine. 
Well hast thou done ; for all the 

stream is freed, 
And thou hast wreak'd his justice on 

his foes, 
And when reviled, hast answer'd 

graciously, 
And makest merry when overthrown. 

Prince, Knight, 
Hail, Knight and Prince, and of our 

Table Round ! " 



And then when turning to Lynette 

he told 
The tale of Gareth, petulantly she 

said, 
" Ay well — ay well — for worse than 

being f ool'd 
Of others, is to fool one's self. A 

cave, 
Sir Lancelot, is hard by, with meats 

and drinks 
And forage for the horse, and flint for 

fire. 



But all about it flies a honeysuckle. 
Seek, till we find." And when they 

sought and found, 
Sir Gareth drank and ate, and all his 

life 
Past into sleep ; on whom the maiden 

gazed. 
" Sound sleep be thine ! sound cause 

to sleep hast thou. 
Wake lusty ! seem I not as tender to 

him 
As any mother 1 Ay, but such a one 
As all day long hath rated at her 

child, 
And vext his clay, but blesses him 

asleep — 
Good lord, how sweetly smells the 

honeysuckle 
In the hush'd night, as if the world 

were one 
Of utter peace, and love, and gentle- 
ness ! 
O Lancelot, Lancelot " — and she 

clapt her hands — 
" Full merry am I to find my goodly 

knave 
Is knight and noble. See now, sworn 

have I, 
Else yon black felon had not let me 

pass, 
To bring thee back to do the battle 

with him. 
Thus an thou goest, he will fight thee 

first; 
Who doubts thee victor ? so will my 

knight-knave 
Miss the full flower of this accom- 
plishment." 



Said Lancelot, " Peradventure he, 
you name, 

May know my shield. Let Gareth, 
an he will, 

Change his for mine, and take my 
charger, fresh, 

Not to be spurr'd, loving the battle as 
well 

As he that rides him." " Lancelot- 
like," she said, 

" Courteous in this, Lord Lancelot, as 
in all." 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



233 



And Gareth, wakening, fiercely 

clutch'd the shield ; 
" Ramp ye lance-splintering lions, on 

whom all spears 
Are rotten sticks ! ye seem agape to 

roar ! 
Yea, ramp and roar at leaving of your 

lord ! — 
Care not, good beasts, so well I care 

for you. 

noble Lancelot, from my hold on 

these 
Streams virtue — fire — thro' one that 

will not shame 
Even the shadow of Lancelot under 

shield. 
Hence : let us go." 

Silent the silent field 
They traversed. Arthur's harp tho' 

summer-wan, 
In counter motion to the clouds, 

allured 
The glance of Gareth dreaming on 

his liege. 
A star shot : " Lo," said Gareth, " the 

foe falls ! " 
An owl whoopt : " Hark the victor 

pealing there ! " 
Suddenly she that rode upon his left 
Clung to the shield that Lancelot lent 

him, crying, 
*' Yield, yield him this again : 'tis he 

must fight : 

1 curse the tongue that all thro' yes- 

terday 

Reviled thee, and hath wrought on 
Lancelot now 

To lend thee horse and shield : won- 
ders ye have done ; 

Miracles ye cannot : here is glory enow 

In having flung the three : I see thee 
maim'd, 

Mangled : I swear thou canst not fling 
the fourth." 

" And wherefore, damsel ? tell me 

all ye know. 
You cannot scare me ; nor rough face, 

or voice, 
Brute bulk of limb, or boundless 

savagery 
Appal me from the quest." 



" Nay, Prince," she cried, 

"God wot, I never look'd upon the 
face, 

Seeing he never rides abroad by 
day; 

But watch'd him have I like a phan- 
tom pass 

Chilling the night : nor have I heard 
the voice. 

Always he made his mouthpiece of a 
page 

Who came and went, and still re- 
ported him 

As closing in himself the strength of 
ten, 

And when his anger tare him, mas- 
sacring 

Man, woman, lad and girl — yea, the 
soft babe ! 

Some hold that he hath swallow'd 
infant flesh, 

Monster ! O Prince, I went for Lance- 
lot first, 

The quest is Lancelot's : give him 
back the shield." 



Said Gareth laughing, " An he fight 
for this, 
Belike he wins it as the better man : 
Thus — and not else ! " 



But Lancelot on him urged 
All the devisings of their chivalry 
When one might meet a mightier than 

himself; 
How best to manage horse, lance, 

sword and shield, 
And so fill up the gap where force 

might fail 
With skill and fineness. Instant were 

his words. 



Then Gareth, "Here be rules. I 

know but one — 
To dash against mine enemy and to 

win. 
Yet have I watch'd thee victor in the 

joust, 
And seen thy way." " Heaven help 

thee," sigh'd Lynette 



234 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



Then for a space, and under cloud 

that grew 
To thunder-gloom palling all stars, 

they rode 
In converse till she made her palfrey- 
halt, 
Lifted an arm, and softly whisper'd, 

"There." 
And all the three were silent seeing, 

pitch'd 
Beside the Castle Perilous on flat field, 
A huge pavilion like a mountain peak 
Sunder the glooming crimson on the 

marge, 
Black, with black banner, and a long 

black horn 
Beside it hanging ; which Sir Gareth 

graspt, 
And so, before the two could hinder 

him, 
Bent all his heart and breath thro' all 

the horn. 
Echo'd the walls ; a light twinkled ; 

anon 
Came lights and lights, and once again 

he blew ; 
Whereon were hollow tramplings up 

and down 
And muffled voices heard, and shadows 

past; 
Till high above him, circled with her 

maids, 
The Lady Lyonors at a window stood, 
Beautiful among lights, and waving to 

him 
White hands, and courtesy; but when 

the Prince 
Three times had blown — after long 

hush — at last — 
The huge pavilion slowly yielded up, 
Thro' those black foldings, that which 

housed therein. 
High on a nightblack horse, in night- 
black arms, 
With white breast-bone, and barren 

ribs of Death, 
And crown'd with fleshless laughter — 

some ten steps — 
In the half-light — thro' the dim dawn 

— advanced 
The monster, and then paused, and 

spake no word. 



But Gareth spake and all indig 

nantly, 
"Fool, for thou hast, men say, the 

strength of ten, 
Canst thou not trust the limbs thy 

God hath given, 
But must, to make the terror of thee 

more, 
Trick thyself out in ghastly imageries 
Of that which Life hath done with, 

and the clod, 
Less dull than thou, will hide with 

mantling flowers 
As if for pity ? " But he spake no 

word; 
Which set the horror higher : a maiden 

swoon'd ; 
The Lady Lyonors wrung her hands 

and wept, 
As doom'd to be the bride of Night 

and Death ; 
Sir Gareth's head prickled beneath his 

helm ; 
And ev'n Sir Lancelot thro' his warm 

blood felt 
Ice strike, and all that mark'd him 

were aghast. 

At once Sir Lancelot's charger 

fiercely neigh'd, 
And Death's dark war-horse bounded 

forward with him. 
Then those that did not blink the 

terror, saw 
That Death was cast to ground, and 

slowly rose. 
But with one stroke Sir Gareth split 

the skull. 
Half fell to right and half to left and 

lay. 
Then with a stronger buffet he clove 

the helm 
As throughly as the skull; and out 

from this 
Issued the bright face of a blooming 

boy 
Fresh as a flower new-born, and crying, 

" Knight, 
Slay me not : my three brethren bade 

me do it, 
To make a horror all about the 

house. 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



235 



And stay the world from Lady Lyon- 

ors. 
They never dream'd the passes would 

be past." 
Answer'd Sir Gareth graciously to one 
Not many a moon his younger, " My 

fair child, 
What madness made thee challenge 

the chief knight 
Of Arthur's hall?" "Fair Sir, they 

bade me do it. 
They hate the King, and Lancelot, the 

King's friend, 
They hoped to slay him somewhere 

on the stream, 
They never dream'd the passes could 

be past." 

Then sprang the happier day from 

underground ; 
And Lady Lyonors and her house, 

with dance 
And revel and song, made merry over 

Death, 
As being after all their foolish fears 
And horrors only proven a blooming 

boy. 
So large mirth lived and Gareth won 

the quest. 

And he that told the tale in older 
times 
Says that Sir Gareth wedded Lyonors, 
But he, that told it later, says Lynette. 



GERAINT AND ENID, 
i. 

The brave Geraint, a knight of 

Arthur's court, 
A tributary prince of Devon, one 
Of that great Order of the Table 

Round, 
Had married Enid, Yniol's only child, 
And loved her, as he loved the light 

of Heaven. 
And as the light of Heaven varies, now 
At sunrise, now at sunset, now by 

night 
With moon and trembling stars, so 

loved Geraint 



To make her beauty vary day by day, 
In crimsons and in purples and in 

gems. 
And Enid, but to please her husband's 

eye, 
Who first had found and loved her in 

a state 
Of broken fortunes, daily fronted 

him 
In some fresh splendor; and the Queen 

herself, 
Grateful to Prince Geraint for service 

done, 
Loved her, and often with her own 

white hands 
Array'd and deck'd her, as the love- 
liest, 
Next after her own self, in all the 

court. 
And Enid loved the Queen, and with 

true heart 
Adored her, as the stateliest and the 

best 
And loveliest of all women upon earth. 
And seeing them so tender and so 

close, 
Long in their common love rejoiced 

Geraint. 
But when a rumor rose about the 

Queen, 
Touching her guilty love for Lancelot, 
Tho' yet there lived no proof, nor yet 

was heard 
The world's loud whisper breaking 

into storm, 
Not less Geraint believed it ; and there 

fell 
A horror on him, lest his gentle wife, 
Thro' that great tenderness for Guin- 
evere, 
Had suffer'd, or should suffer any 

taint 
In nature : wherefore going to the 

King, 
He made this pretext, that his prince- 
dom lay 
Close on the borders of a territory, 
Wherein were bandit earls, and caitiff 

knights, 
Assassins, and all flyers from the hand 
Of Justice, and whatever loathes a 



236 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



And therefore, till the King himself 
should please 

To cleanse this common sewer of all 
his realm, 

He craved a fair permission to depart, 

And there defend his marches; and 
the King 

Mused for a little on his plea, but, last, 

Allowing it, the Prince and Enid rode, 

And fifty knights rode with them, to 
the shores 

Of Severn, and they past to their own 
land; 

Where, thinking, that if ever yet was 
wife 

True to her lord, mine shall be so to me, 

He compass'd her with sweet observ- 
ances 

And worship, never leaving her, and 
grew 

Forgetful of his promise to the King, 

Forgetful of the falcon and the hunt, 

Forgetful of the tilt and tournament, 

Forgetful of his glory and his name, 

Forgetful of his princedom and its 
cares. 

And this forgetfulness was hateful to 
her. 

And by and by the people, when they 
met 

In twos and threes, or fuller com- 
panies, 

Began to scoff and jeer and babble of 
him 

As of a prince whose manhood was all 
gone, 

And molten down in mere uxorious- 
ness. 

And this she gather'd from the peo- 
ple's eyes : 

This too the women who attired her 
head, 

To please her, dwelling on his bound- 
less love, 

Told Enid, and they sadden'd her the 
more : 

And day by day she thought to tell 
Geraint, 

But could not out of bashful delicacy ; 

While he that watch'd her sadden, was 
the more 

Suspicious that her nature had a taint. 



At last, it chanced that on a summer 

morn 
(They sleeping each by either) the 

new sun 
Beat thro' the blindless casement of 

the room, 
And heated the strong warrior in his 

dreams ; 
Who, moving, cast the coverlet 

aside, 
And bared the knotted column of his 

throat, 
The massive square of his heroic 

breast, 
And arms on which the standing 

muscle sloped, 
As slopes a wild brook o'er a little 

stone, 
Eunning too vehemently to break 

upon it. 
And Enid woke and sat beside the 

couch, 
Admiring him, and thought within 

herself, 
Was ever man so grandly made as 

he? 
Then, like a shadow, past the people's 

talk 
And accusation of uxoriousness 
Across her mind, and bowing over 

him, 
Low to her own heart piteously she 

said: 

" O noble breast and all-puissant 

arms, 
Am I the cause, I the poor cause that 

men 
Reproach you, saying all your force 

is gone? 
I am the cause, because I dare not 

speak 
And tell him what I think and what 

they say. 
And yet I hate that he should linger 

here ; 
I cannot love my lord and not his 

name. 
Far liefer had I gird his harness on 

him, 
And ride with him to battle and stand 

by, 



G ERA INT AND ENID. 



237 



And watch his mightf ul hand striking- 
great blows 

At caitiffs and at wrongers of the 
world. 

Far better were I laid in the dark 
earth, 

Not hearing any more his noble voice, 

Not to be folded more in these dear 
arms, 

And darken'd from the high light in 
his eyes, 

Than that my lord thro' me should 
suffer shame. 

Am I so bold, and could I so stand 

by, 

And see my dear lord wounded in the 

strife, 
Or maybe pierced to death before 

mine eyes, 
And yet not dare to tell him what I 

think, 
And how men slur him, saying all his 

force 
Is melted into mere effeminacy 1 
O me, I fear that I am no true wife." 



Half inwardly, half audibly she 

spoke, 
And the strong passion in her made 

her weep 
True tears upon his broad and naked 

breast, 
And these awoke him, and by great 

mischance 
He heard but fragments of her later 

words, 
And that she fear'd she was not a true 

wife. 
And then he thought, " In spite of all 

my care, 
For all my pains, poor man, for all 

my pains, 
She is not faithful to me, and I see her 
Weeping for some gay knight in 

Arthur's hall." 
Then tho' he loved and reverenced 

her too much 
To dream she could be guilty of foul 

act, 
Right thro' his manful breast darted 

the pang 



That makes a man, in the sweet face 

of her 
Whom he loves most, lonely and mis- 
erable. 
At this he hurl'd his huge limbs out 

of bed, 
And shook his drowsy squire awake 

and cried, 
" My charger and her palfrey ; " then 

to her, 
" I will ride forth into the wilderness ; 
For tho' it seems my spurs are yet to 

win, 
I have not fall'n so low as some would 

wish. 
And thou, put on thy worst and mean- 
est dress 
And ride with me." And Enid ask'd, 

amazed, 
"If Enid errs, let Enid learn her 

fault." 
But he, " I charge thee, ask not, but 

obey." 
Then she bethought her of a faded 

silk, 
A faded mantle and a faded veil, 
And moving toward a cedarn cabinet, 
Wherein she kept them folded rever- 
ently 
With sprigs of summer laid between 

the folds, 
She took them, and array'd herself 

therein, 
Remembering when first he came on 

her 
Drest in that dress, and how he loved 

her in it, 
And all her foolish fears about the 

dress, 
And all his journey to her, as himself 
Had told her, and their coming to the 

court. 



For Arthur on the Whitsuntide 

before 
Held court at old Caerleon upon Usk. 
There on a day, he sitting high in 

hall, 
Before him came a forester of Dean, 
Wet from the woods, with notice of a 

hart 



238 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



Taller than all his fellows, milky- 
white, 

First seen that day : these things he 
told the King. 

Then the good King gave order to let 
blow 

His horns for hunting on the morrow 
morn. 

And when the Queen petition'd for his 
leave 

To see the hunt, allow'd it easily. 

So with the morning all the court were 
gone. 

But Guinevere lay late into the morn, 

Lost in sweet dreams, and dreaming 
of her love 

For Lancelot, and forgetful of the 
hunt; 

But rose at last, a single maiden with 
her, 

Took horse, and forded Usk, and 
gain'd the wood ; 

There, on a little knoll beside it, 
stay'd 

Waiting to hear the hounds; but 
heard instead 

A sudden sound of hoofs, for Prince 
Geraint, 

Late also, wearing neither hunting- 
dress 

Nor weapon, save a golden-hilted 
brand, 

Came quickly flashing thro' the shal- 
low ford 

Behind them, and so gallop'd up the 
knoll. 

A purple scarf, at either end whereof 

There swung an apple of the purest 
gold, 

Sway'd round about him, as he gal- 
lop'd up 

To join them, glancing like a dragon- 
fly 

In summer suit and silks of holiday. 

Low bow'd the tributary Prince, and 
she, 

Sweetly and statelily, and with all 
grace 

Of womanhood and queenhood, 
answer'd him : 

**Late, late, Sir Prince," she said, 
" later than we ! " 



"Yea, noble Queen," he answer'd, 

" and so late 
That I but come like you to see the 

hunt, 
Not join it." " Therefore wait with 

me," she said ; 
" For on this little knoll, if anywhere, 
There is good chance that we shall 

hear the hounds : 
Here often they break covert at our 

feet." 

And while they listen'd for the dis- 
tant hunt, 
And chiefly for the baying of Cavall, 
King Arthur's hound of deepest 

mouth, there rode 
Full slowly by a knight, lady, and 

dwarf ; 
Whereof the dwarf lagg'd latest, and 

the knight 
Had vizor up, and show'd a youthful 

face, 
Imperious, and of haughtiest linea- 
ments. 
And Guinevere, not mindful of his 

face 
In the King's hall, desired his name, 

and sent 
Her maiden to demand it of the 

dwarf ; 
Who being vicious, old and irritable, 
And doubling all his master's vice of 

pride, 
Made answer sharply that she should 

not know. 
" Then will I ask it of himself," she 

said. 
" Nay, by my faith, thou shalt not," 

cried the dwarf ; 
" Thou art not worthy ev'n to speak 

of him ; " 
And when she put her horse toward 

the knight, 
Struck at her with his whip, and she 

return'd 
Indignant to the Queen ; whereat 

Geraint 
Exclaiming, "Surely I will learn the 

name," 
Made sharply to the dwarf, and ask'd 

it of him, 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



239 



Who answer'd as before; and when 

the Prince 
Had put his horse in motion toward 

the knight, 
Struck at him with his whip, and cut 

his cheek. 
The Prince's blood spirted upon the 

scarf, 
Dyeing it; and his quick, instinctive 

hand 
Caught at the hilt, as to abolish him : 
But he, from his exceeding manful- 

ness 
And pure nobility of temperament, 
Wroth to be wroth at such a worm, 

refrain'd 
From ev'n a word, and so returning 

said: 

"I will avenge this insult, noble 
Queen, 

Done in your maiden's person to your- 
self: 

And I will track this vermin to their 
earths : 

For tho' I ride unarm'd, I do not doubt 

To find, at some place I shall come at, 
arms 

On loan, or else for pledge ; and, being 
found, 

Then will I fight him, and will break 
his pride, 

And on the third day will again be 
here, 

So that I be not f all'n in fight. Fare- 
well." 

"Farewell, fair Prince," answer'd 

the stately Queen. 
" Be prosperous in this journey, as in 

all; 
And may you light on all things that 

you love, 
And live to wed with her whom first 

you love : 
But ere you wed with any, bring your 

bride, 
And I, were she the daughter of a 

king, 
Yea, tho' she were a beggar from the 

hedge, 
Will clothe her for her bridals like 

the sun." 



And Prince Geraint, now thinking 

that he heard 
The noble hart at bay, now the far 

horn, 
A little vext at losing of the hunt, 
A little at the vile occasion, rode, 
By ups and downs, thro' many a grassy 

glade 
And valley, with fixt eye following 

the three. 
At last they issued from the world of 

wood, 
And climb'd upon a fair and even 

ridge, 
And show'd themselves against the 

sky, and sank. 
And thither came Geraint, and under 

neath 
Beheld the long street of a little town 
In a long valley, on one side 

whereof, 
White from the mason's hand, a for- 
tress rose ; 
And on one side a castle in decay, 
Beyond a bridge that spann'd a dry 

ravine : 
And out of town and valley came a 

noise 
As of a broad brook o'er a shingly bed 
Brawling, or like a clamor of the rooks 
At distance, ere they settle for the 

night. 



And onward to the fortress rode the 

three, 
And enter'd, and were lost behind the 

walls. 
" So," thought Geraint, " I have 

track'd him to his earth." 
And down the long street riding 

wearily, 
Found every hostel full, and every- 
where 
Was hammer laid to hoof, and the 

hot hiss 
And bustling whistle of the youth 

who scour'd 
His master's armor; and of such a 

one 
He ask'd, "What means the tumult 

in the town % " 



240 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



Who told him, scouring still, " The 
sparrow-hawk ! " 

Then riding close behind an ancient 
churl, 

Who, smitten by the dusty sloping 
beam, 

Went sweating underneath a sack of 
corn, 

Ask'd yet once more what meant the 
hubbub here *? 

Who answer'd gruffly, " Ugh ! the 
sparrow-hawk." 

Then riding further past an armorer's, 

Who, with back turn'd, and bow'd 
above his work, 

Sat riveting a helmet on his knee, 

He put the self-same query, but the 
man 

Not turning round, nor looking at 
him, said : 

" Friend, he that labors for the spar- 
row-hawk 

Has little time for idle questioners." 

Whereat Geraint flash'd into sudden 
spleen : 

" A thousand pips eat up your spar- 
row-hawk ! 

Tits, wrens, and all wing'd nothings 
peck him dead ! 

Ye think the rustic cackle of your 
bourg 

The murmur of the world ! What is 
it to me 1 

wretched set of sparrows, one and 
all, 

Who pipe of nothing but of sparrow- 
hawks ! 

Speak, if ye be not like the rest, 
hawk-mad, 

Where can I get me harborage for 
the night 1 

And arms, arms, arms to fight my 
enemy ? Speak ! " 

Whereat the armorer turning all 
amazed 

And seeing one so gay in purple silks, 

Came forward with the helmet yet in 
hand 

And answer'd, " Pardon me, stran- 
ger knight ; 

We hold a tourney here to-morrow 
morn, 



And there is scantly time for half the 

work. 
Arms ? truth ! I know not : all are 

wanted here. 
Harborage ? truth, good truth, I know 

not, save, 
It may be, at Earl YnioPs, o'er the 

bridge 
Yonder." He spoke and fell to work 

again. 

Then rode Geraint, a little spleen- 
ful yet, 

Across the bridge that spann'd the 
dry ravine. 

There musing sat the hoary-headed 
Earl, 

(His dress a suit of fray'd magnifi- 
cence, 

Once fit for feasts of ceremony) and 
said: 

" Whither, fair son ? " to whom Ger- 
aint replied, 

" O friend, I seek a harborage for the 
night." 

Then Yniol, " Enter therefore and 
partake 

The slender entertainment of a house 

Once rich, now poor, but ever open- 
door'd." 

"Thanks, venerable friend," replied 
Geraint ; 

" So that you do not serve me spar- 
row-hawks 

For supper, I will enter, I will eat 

With all the passion of a twelve 
hours' fast." 

Then sigh'd and smiled the hoary- 
headed Earl, 

And answer'd, " Graver cause than 
yours is mine 

To curse this hedgerow thief, the 
sparrow-hawk : 

But in, go in ; for save yourself de- 
sire it, 

We will not touch upon him ev'n in 
jest." 

Then rode Geraint into the castle 
court, 

His charger trampling many a prickly 
star 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



241 



Of sprouted thistle on the broken 
stones. 

He look'd and saw that all was 
ruinous. 

Here stood a shatter'd archway- 
plumed with fern ; 

And here had fall'n a great part of 
a tower, 

Whole, like a crag that tumbles from 
the cliff, 

And like a crag was gay with wilding 
flowers : 

And high above a piece of turret stair, 

Worn by the feet that now were 
silent, wound 

Bare to the sun, and monstrous ivy- 
stems 

Claspt the gray walls with hairy- 
fibred arms, 

And suck'd the joining of the stones, 
and look'd 

A knot, beneath, of snakes, aloft, a 
grove. 

And while he waited in the castle 

court, 
The voice of Enid, YnioPs daughter, 

rang 
Clear thro' the open casement of the 

hall, 
Singing; and as the sweet voice of a 

bird, 
Heard by the lander in a lonely isle, 
Moves him to think what kind of bird 

it is 
That sings so delicately clear, and 

make 
Conjecture of the plumage and the 

form ; 
So the sweet voice of Enid moved 

Geraint ; 
And made him like a man abroad at 

morn 
When first the liquid note beloved of 

men 
Comes flying over many a windy wave 
To Britain, and in April suddenly 
Breaks from a coppice gemm'd with 

green and red, 
And he suspends his converse with a 

friend, 
Or it may be the labor of his hands, 



To think or say, " There is the night- 
ingale " ; 

So fared it with Geraint, who thought 
and said, 

" Here, by God's grace, is the one 
voice for me." 

It chanced the song that Enid sang 
was one 
Of Fortune and her wheel, and Enid 
sang: 

" Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel 

and lower the proud ; 
Turn thy wild wheel thro' sunshine, 

storm, and cloud; 
Thy wheel and thee we neither love 

nor hate. 

" Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel 

with smile or frown; 
With that wild wheel we go not up or 

down ; 
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are 

great. 

" Smile and we smile, the lords of 

many lands; 
Frown and we smile, the lords of our 

own hands ; 
For man is man and master of his 

fate. 

" Turn, turn thy wheel above the 

staring crowd ; 
Thy wheel and thou are shadows in 

the cloud; 
Thy wheel and thee we neither love 

nor hate." 

" Hark, by the bird's song ye may 
learn the nest," 

Said Yniol ; " enter quickly." Enter- 
ing then, 

Right o'er a mount of newly-fallen 
stones, 

The dusky-rafter'd many-cobweb'd 
hall, 

He found an ancient dame in dim 
brocade ; 

And near her, like a blossom vermeil- 
white, 



242 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



That lightly breaks a faded flower- 
sheath, 
Moved the fair Enid, all in faded 

silk, 
Her daughter. In a moment thought 

Geraint, 
"Here by God's rood is the one maid 

for me." 
But none spake word except the hoary 

Earl: 
" Enid, the good knight's horse stands 

in the court ; 
Take him to stall, and give him corn, 

and then 
Go to the town and buy us flesh and 

wine; 
And we will make us merry as we 

may. 
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are 

great." 

He spake : the Prince, as Enid past 

him, fain 
To follow, strode a stride, but Yniol 

caught 
His purple scarf, and held, and said, 

" Forbear ! 
Rest ! the good house, tho' ruin'd, O 

my son, 
Endures not that her guest should 

serve himself." 
And reverencing the custom of the 

house 
Geraint, from utter courtesy, forbore. 

So Enid took his charger to the 

stall ; 
And after went her way across the 

bridge, 
And reach'd the town, and while the 

Prince and Earl 
Yet spoke together, came again with 

one, 
A youth, that following with a costrel 

bore 
The means of goodly welcome, flesh 

and wine. 
And Enid brought sweet cakes to 

make them cheer, 
And in her veil unfolded, manchet 

bread. 



And then, because their hall must also 

serve 
For kitchen, boil'd the flesh, and 

spread the board, 
And stood behind, and waited on tho 

three. 
And seeing her so sweet and service- 
able, 
Geraint had longing in him evermore 
To stoop and kiss the tender little 

thumb, 
That crost the trencher as she laid it 

down : 
But after all had eaten, then Geraint, 
For now the wine made summer in his 

veins, 
Let his eye rove in following, or rest 
On Enid at her lowly handmaid-work, 
Now here, now there, about the dusky 

hall; 
Then suddenly addrest the hoary 

Earl: 



" Fair Host and Earl, I pray your 

courtesy ; 
This sparrow-hawk, what is he 1 tell 

me of him. 
His name 1 but no, good faith, I will 

not have it : 
For if he be the knight whom late I 

saw 
Ride into that new fortress by your 

town, 
White from the mason's hand, thei 

have I sworn 
From his own lips to have it — I ai 

Geraint 
Of Devon — for this morning when the 

Queen 
Sent her own maiden to demand the 

name, 
His dwarf, a vicious under-shapei 

thing, 
Struck at her with his whip, and she 

return'd 
Indignant to the Queen ; and then 

swore 
That I would track this caitiff to his 

hold, 
And fight and break his pride, and 

have it of him. 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



243 



And all unarm'd I rode, and thought 

to find 
Arms in your town, where all the men 

are mad ; 
They take the rustic murmur of their 

bourg 
For the great wave that echoes round 

the world ; 
They would not hear me speak : but 

if ye know 
"Where I can light on arms, or if your- 
self 
Should have them, tell me, seeing I 

have sworn 
That I will break his pride and learn 

his name, 
Avenging this great insult done the 

Queen." 

Then cried Earl Yniol, "Art thou 

he indeed, 
Geraint, a name far-sounded among 

men 
For noble deeds % and truly I, when 

first 
I saw you moving by me on the 

bridge, 
Felt ye were somewhat, yea, and by 

your state 
And presence might haveguess'd you 

one of those 
That eat in Arthur's hall at Camelot. 
Nor speak I now from foolish flat- 
tery; 
For this dear child hath often heard 

me praise 
Your feats of arms, and often when I 

paused 
Hath ask'd again, and ever loved to 

hear ; 
So grateful is the noise of noble deeds 
To noble hearts who see but acts of 

wrong : 

never yet had woman such a pair 
Of suitors as this maiden; first Lim- 

ours, 
A creature wholly given to brawls and 

wine, 
Drunk even when he woo'd; and be 

he dead 

1 know not, but he passed to the wild 

land. 



The second was your foe, the sparrow 

hawk, 
My curse, my nephew — I will not let 

his name 
Slip from my lips if I can help it — 

he, 
When I that knew him fierce and tur- 
bulent 
Refused her to him, then his pride 

awoke ; 
And since the proud man often is the 

mean, 
He sow'd a slander in the common ear, 
Affirming that his father left him 

m gold, 
And in my charge, which was not ren- 

der'd to him ; 
Bribed with large promises the men 

who served 
About my person, the more easily 
Because my means were somewhat 

broken into 
Thro' open doors and hospitality ; 
Raised my own town against me in 

the night 
Before my Enid's birthday, sack'd my 

house ; 
From mine own earldom foully ousted 

me; 
Built that new fort to overawe my 

friends, 
For truly there are those who love me 

yet; 
And keeps me in this ruinous castle 

here, 
Where doubtless he would put me 

soon to death, 
But that his pride too much despises 

me: 
And I myself sometimes despise my- 
self; 
For I have let men be, and have their 

way; 
Am much too gentle, have not used 

my power : 
Nor know I whether I be very base 
Or very manful, whether very wise 
Or very foolish ; only this I know, 
That whatsoever evil happen to me, 
I seem to suffer nothing heart or 

limb, 
But can endure it all most patiently.' 



244 



GERATNT AND ENID. 



"Well said, true heart," replied 

Geraint, " but arms, 
That if the sparrow-hawk, this 

nephew, fight 
In next day's tourney I may break 

his pride." 

And Yniol answer'd, " Arms, indeed, 
but old 

And rusty, old and rusty, Prince 
Geraint, 

Are mine, and therefore at thine ask- 
ing, thine. 

But in this tournament can no man 
tilt, 

Except the lady he loves best be 
there. 

Two forks are fixt into the meadow 
ground, 

And over these is placed a silver 
wand, 

And over that a golden sparrow-hawk, 

The prize of beauty for the fairest 
there. 

And this, what knight soever be in 
field 

Lays claim to for the lady at his 
side, 

And tilts with my good nephew there- 
upon, 

Who being apt at arms and big of 
bone 

Has ever won it for the lady with 
him, 

And toppling over all antagonism 

Has earn'd himself the name of spar- 
row-hawk. 

But thou, that hast no lady, canst not 
fight." 

To whom Geraint with eyes all 

bright replied, 
Leaning a little toward him, "Thy 

leave ! 
Let me lay lance in rest, O noble host, 
For this dear child, because I never 

saw, 
Tho' having seen all beauties of our 

time, 
Nor can see elsewhere, anything so 

fair. 
And if I fall her name will yet remain 



Untarnish'd as before ; but if I live, 
So aid me Heaven when at mine ut- 
termost, 
As I will make her truly my true 
wife." 

Then, howsoever patient, Yniol's 
heart 

Danced in his bosom, seeing better 
days. 

And looking round he saw not Enid 
there, 

(Who hearing her own name had 
stol'n away) 

But that old dame, to whom full ten- 
derly 

And fondling all her hand in his he 
said, 

" Mother, a maiden is a tender thing, 

And best by her that bore her under- 
stood. 

Go thou to rest, but ere thou go to 
rest 

Tell her, and prove her heart toward 
the Prince." 

So spake the kindly-hearted Earl, 

and she 
With frequent smile and nod depart- 
ing found, 
Half disarray'd as to her rest, the girl ; 
Whom first she kiss'd on either cheek, 

and then 
On either shining shoulder laid a hand, 
And kept her off and gazed upon her 

face, 
And told her all their converse in the 

hall, 
Proving her heart : but never light and 

shade 
Coursed one another more on open 

ground 
Beneath a troubled heaven, than red 

and pale 
Across the face of Enid hearing her ; 
While slowly falling as a scale that 

falls, 
When weight is added only grain by 

grain, 
Sank her sweet head upon her gentle 

breast ; 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



245 



Nor did she lift an eye nor speak a 

word, 
Rapt in the fear and in the wonder of 

it; 
So moving without answer to her rest 
She found no rest, and ever fail'd to 

draw 
The quiet night into her blood, but 

lay 
Contemplating her own unworthiness ; 
And when the pale and bloodless east 

began 
To quicken to the sun, arose, and 

raised 
Her mother too, and hand in hand 

they moved 
Down to the meadow where the jousts 

were held, 
And waited there for Yniol and 

Geraint. 

And thither came the twain, and 

when Geraint 
Beheld her first in field, awaiting him, 
He felt, were she the prize of bodily 

force, 
Himself beyond the rest pushing could 

move 
The chair of Idris. Yniol's rusted 

arms 
Were on his princely person, but thro' 

these 
Princelike his bearing shone; and 

errant knights 
And ladies came, and by and by the 

town 
Flow'd in, and settling circled all the 

lists. 
And there they fixt the forks into the 

ground, 
And over these they placed the silver 

wand, 
And over that the golden sparrow- 
hawk. 
Then Yniol's nephew, after trumpet 

blown, 
Spake to the lady with him and pro- 

claim'd, 
" Advance and take as fairest of the 

fair, 
For I these two years past have won 

it for thee, 



The prize of beauty." Loudly spake 

the Prince, 
" Forbear : there is a worthier," and 

the knight 
With some surprise and thrice as much 

disdain 
Turn'd, and beheld the four, and all 

his face 
Glow'd like the heart of a great fire 

at Yule, 
So burnt he was with passion, crying 

out, 
" Do battle for it then," no more ; and 

thrice 
They clash'd together, and thrice they 

brake their spears. 
Then each, dishorsed and drawing, 

lash'd at each 
So often and with such blows, that all 

the crowd 
Wonder'd, and now and then from 

distant walls 
There came a clapping as of phantom 

hands. 
So twice they fought, and twice they 

breathed, and still 
The dew of their great labor, and the 

blood 
Of their strong bodies, flowing, drain'd 

their force. 
But either's force was match'd till 

Yniol's cry, 
" Remember that great insult done the 

Queen," 
Increased Geraint's, who heaved his 

blade aloft, 
And crack'd the helmet thro', and bit 

the bone, 
And fell'd him, and set foot upon his 

breast, 
And said, "Thy name? " To whom 

the fallen man 
Made answer, groaning, " Edyrn, son 

of Nudd ! 
Ashamed am I that I should tell it 

thee. 
My pride is broken : men have seen 

my fall." 
" Then, Edyrn, son of Nudd," replied 

Geraint, 
"These two things shalt thou do, or 

else thou diest. 



246 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



First, thou thyself, with damsel and 

with dwarf, 
Shalt ride to Arthur's court, and com- 
ing there, 
Crave pardon for that insult done the 

Queen, 
And shalt abide her judgment on it: 

next, 
Thou shalt give back their earldom to 

thy kin. 
These two things shalt thou do, or 

thou shalt die." 
And Edyrn answer'd, " These things 

will I do, 
For I have never yet been overthrown, 
And thou hast overthrown me, and my 

pride 
Is broken down, for Enid sees my 

fall ! " 
And rising up, he rode to Arthur's 

court, 
And there the Queen forgave him 

easily. 
And being young, he changed and 

came to loathe 
His crime of traitor, slowly drew him- 
self 
Bright from his old dark life, and fell 

at last 
In the great battle fighting for the 

King. 

But when the third day from the 

hunting-morn 
Made a low splendor in the world, and 

wings 
Moved in her ivy, Enid, for she 

lay 
With her fair head in the dim-yellow 

light, 
Among the dancing shadows of the 

birds, 
Woke and bethought her of her 

promise given 
No later than last eve to Prince 

Geraint — 
So bent he seem'd on going the third 

day, 
He would not leave her, till her prom- 
ise given — 
To ride with him this morning to the 

court, 



And there be made known to the 

stately Queen, 
And there be wedded with all cere- 
mony. 
At this she cast her eyes upon her 

dress, 
And thought it never yet had look'd 

so mean. 
For as a leaf in mid-November is 
To what it was in mid-October, seem'd 
The dress that now she look'd on to 

the dress 
She look'd on ere the coming of 

Geraint. 
And still she look'd, and still the 

terror grew 
Of that strange bright and dreadful 

thing, a court, 
All staring at her in her faded silk : 
And softly to her own sweet heart she 

said: 

"This noble prince who won our 
earldom back, 
So splendid in his acts and his attire, 
Sweet heaven, how much I shall dis- 
credit him ! 
Would he could tarry with us here 

awhile, 
But being so beholden to the Prince, 
It were but little grace in any of us, 
Bent as he seem'd on going this third 

day, 
To seek a second favor at his hands. 
Yet if he could but tarry a day or two, 
Myself would work eye dim, and finger 

lame, 
Far liefer than so much discredit him." 

And Enid fell in longing for a dress 
All branch'd and flower'd with gold, 

a costly gift 
Of her good mother, given her on the 

night 
Before her birth day, three sad years 

ago, 
That night of fire, when Edyrn sack'd 

their house, 
And scatter'd all they had to all the 

winds : 
For while the mother show'd it, and 

the two 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



247 



Were turning and admiring it, the 

work 
To both appear' d so costly, rose a cry 
That Edyrn's men were on them, and 

they fled 
With little save the jewels they had 

on, 
Which being sold and sold had bought 

them bread : 
And Edyrn's men had caught them in 

their flight, 
And placed them in this ruin; and 

she wish'd 
The Prince had found her in her 

ancient home ; 
Then let her fancy flit across the past, 
And roam the goodly places that she 

knew; 
And last bethought her how she used 

to watch, 
Near that old home, a pool of golden 

carp; 
And one was patch'd and blurr'd and 

lustreless 
Among his burnish'd brethren of the 

pool; 
And half asleep she made comparison 
Of that and these to her own faded self 
And the gay court, and fell asleep 

again ; 
And dreamt herself was such a faded 

form 
Among her burnish'd sisters of the 

pool ; 
But this was in the garden of a king ; 
And tho' she lay dark in the pool, she 

knew 
That all was bright ; that all about 

were birds 
Of sunny plume in gilded trellis-work ; 
That all the turf was rich in plots that 

look'd 
Each like a garnet or a turkis in it ; 
And lords and ladies of the high court 

went 
In silver tissue talking things of state ; 
And children of the King in cloth of 

gold 
Glanced at the doors or gambol'd down 

the walks ; 
And while she thought "They will 

not see me," came 



A stately queen whose name was 

Guinevere, 
And all the children in their cloth of 

gold 
Ran to her, crying, " If we have fish 

at all 
Let them be gold; and charge the 

gardeners now 
To pick the faded creature from the 

pool, 
And cast it on the mixen that it die." 
And therewithal one came and seized 

on her, 
And Enid started waking, with her 

heart 
All overshadow'd by the foolish 

dream, 
And lo ! it was her mother grasping 

her 
To get her well awake ; and in her 

hand 
A suit of bright apparel, which she 

laid 
Flat on the couch, and spoke exult- 

ingly : 

" See here, my child, how fresh the 

colors look, 
How fast they hold like colors of a 

shell 
That keeps the wear and polish of the 

wave. 
Why not? It never yet was worn, I 

trow: 
Look on it, child, and tell me if ye 

know it." 

And Enid look'd, but all confused 
at first, 

Could scarce divide it from her foolish 
dream : 

Then suddenly she knew it and re- 
joiced, 

And answer'd, "Yea, I know it; your 
good gift, 

So sadly lost on that unhappy night ; 

Your own good gift ! " " Yea, surely," 
said the dame, 

" And gladly given again this happy 
morn. 

For when the jousts were ended yes- 
terday, 



248 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



Went Yniol thro' the town, and every- 
where 
He found the sack and plunder of our 

house 
All scatter'd thro' the houses of the 

town ; 
And gave command that all which 

once was ours 
Should now be ours again : and yes- 

ter-eve, 
While ye were talking sweetly with 

your Prince, 
Came one with this and laid it in my 

hand, 
For love or fear, or seeking favor of 

us, 
Because we have our earldom back 

again. 
And yester-eve I would not tell you 

of it, 
But kept it for a sweet surprise at 

morn. 
Yea, truly is it not a sweet surprise ? 
For I myself unwillingly have worn 
My faded suit, as you, my child, have 

yours, 
And howsoever patient, Yniol his. 
Ah, dear, he took me from a goodly 

house, 
With store of rich apparel, sumptuous 

fare, 
And page, and maid, and squire, and 

seneschal, 
And pastime both of hawk and hound, 

and all 
That appertains to noble maintenance. 
Yea, and he brought me to a goodly 

house ; 
But since our fortune swerved from 

sun to shade, 
And all thro' that young traitor, cruel 

need 
Constrain'd us, but a better time has 

come; 
So clothe yourself in this, that better 

fits 
Our mended fortunes and a Prince's 

bride : 
For tho' ye won the prize of fairest 

fair, 
And tho' I heard him call you fairest 

fair, 



Let never maiden think, however fair, 
She is not fairer in new clothes than 

old. 
And should some great court-lady 

say, the Prince 
Hath pick'd a ragged-robin from the 

hedge, 
And like a madman brought her 

to the court, 
Then were ye shamed, and, worse, 

might shame the Prince 
To whom we are beholden; but I 

know, 
When my dear child is set forth at 

her best, 
That neither court nor country, tho' 

they sought 
Thro' all the provinces like those of 

old 
That lighted on Queen Esther, has 

her match." 

Here ceased the kindly mother out 

of breath ; 
And Enid listen'd brightening as she 

lay; 
Then, as the white and glittering star 

of morn 
Parts from a bank of snow, and by 

and by 
Slips into golden cloud, the maiden 

rose, 
And left her maiden couch, and robed 

herself, 
Help'd by the mother's careful hand 

and eye, 
Without a mirror, in the gorgeous 

gown ; 
Who, after, turn'd her daughter round, 

and said, 
She never yet had seen her half so 

fair; 
And call'd her like that maiden in the 

tale, 
Whom Gwydion made by glamour out 

of flowers, 
And sweeter than the bride of Cas- 

sivelaun, 
Flur, for whose love the Roman 

Caesar first 
Invaded Britain, " But we beat him 

back, 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



249 



As this great Prince invaded us, and 

we, 
Not beat him back, but welcomed him 

with joy. 
And I can scarcely ride with you to 

court, 
For old am I, and rough the ways and 

wild ; 
But Yniol goes, and I full oft shall 

dream 
I see my princess as I see her now, 
Clothed with my gift, and gay among 

the gay." 

But while the women thus rejoiced, 

Geraint 
Woke where he slept in the high hall, 

and call'd 
For Enid, and when Yniol made report 
Of that good mother making Enid 

gay 

In such apparel as might well beseem 
His princess, or indeed the stately 

Queen, 
He answer'd: "Earl, entreat her by 

my love, 
Albeit I give no reason but my wish, 
That she ride with me in her faded 

silk." 
Yniol with that hard message went; 

it fell 
Like flaws in summer laying lusty 

corn : 
For Enid, all abash'd she knew not 

why, 
Dared not to glance at her good 

mother's face, 
But silently, in all obedience, 
Her mother silent too, nor helping her, 
Laid from her limbs the costly-broid- 

er'd gift, 
And robed them in her ancient suit 

again, 
And so descended. Never man re- 
joiced 
More than Geraint to greet her thus 

attired ; 
And glancing all at once as keenly at 

her 
As careful robins eye the delver's toil, 
Made her cheek burn and either eye- 
lid fall, 



But rested with her sweet face satis- 
fied ; 

Then seeing cloud upon the mother's 
brow, 

Her by both hands he caught, and 
sweetly said, 

" my new mother, be not wroth 

or grieved 
At thy new son, for my petition to 

her. 
When late I left Caerleon, our great 

Queen, 
In words whose echo lasts, they were 

so sweet, 
Made promise, that whatever bride I 

brought, 
Herself would clothe her like the sun 

in Heaven. 
Thereafter, when I reach'd this ruin'd 

hall, 
Beholding one so bright in dark estate, 
I vow'd that could I gain her, our fair 

Queen, 
No hand but hers, should make your 

Enid burst 
Sunlike from cloud — and likewise 

thought perhaps, 
That service done so graciously would 

bind 
The two together; fain I would the 

two 
Should love each other: how can 

Enid find 
A nobler friend 1 Another thought 

was mine ; 
I came among you here so suddenly, 
That tho' her gentle presence at the 

lists 
Might well have served for proof that 

I was loved, 
I doubted whether daughter's tender- 
ness, 
Or easy nature, might not let itself 
Be moulded by your wishes for her 

weal; 
Or whether some false sense in her 

own self 
Of my contrasting brightness, over 

bore 
Her fancy dwelling in this dusky 

hall; 



250 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



And such a sense might make her 

long for court 
And all its perilous glories : and I 

thought, 
That could I someway prove such 

force in her 
Link'd with such love for me, that at 

a word 
(No reason given her) she could cast 

aside 
A splendor dear to women, new to 

her, 
And therefore dearer; or if not so 

new, 
Yet therefore tenfold dearer by the 

power 
Of intermitted usage ; then I felt 
That I could rest, a rock in ebbs and 

flows, 
Fixt on her faith. Now, therefore, I 

do rest, 
A prophet certain of my prophecy, 
That never shadow of mistrust can 

. cross 
Between us. Grant me pardon for 

my thoughts : 
And for my strange petition I will 

make 
Amends hereafter by some gaudy-day, 
When your fair child shall wear your 

costly gift 
Beside your own warm hearth, with, 

on her knees, 
Who knows 1 another gift of the high 

God, 
Which, maybe, shall have learn'd to 

lisp you thanks." 

He spoke : the mother smiled, but 

half in tears, 
Then brought a mantle down and 

wrapt her in it, 
And claspt and kiss'd her, and they 

rode away. 

Now thrice that morning Guinevere 

had climb'd 
The giant tower, from whose high 

crest, they say, 
Men saw the goodly hills of Somerset, 
And white sails flying on the yellow 



But not to goodly hill or yellow sea 
Look'd the fair Queen, but up the 

vale of Usk, 
By the flat meadow, till she saw them 

come ; 
And then descending met them at the 

gates, 
Embraced her with all welcome as a 

friend, 
And did her honor as the Prince's 

bride, 
And clothed her for her bridals like 

the sun; 
And all that week was old Caerleon 

gay, 
For by the hands of Dubric, the high 

saint, 
They twain were wedded with all 

ceremony. 

And this was on the last year's 

Whitsuntide. 
But Enid ever kept the faded silk, 
Remembering how first he came on 

her, 
Drest in that dress, and how he loved 

her in it, 
And all her foolish fears about the 

dress, 
And all his journey toward her, as 

himself 
Had told her, and their coming to the 

court. 

And now this morning when he said 

to her, 
"Put on your worst and meanest 

dress/' she found 
And took it, and array'd herself 

therein. 



O purblind race of miserable men, 
How many among us at this very hour 
Do forge a life-long trouble for our- 
selves, 
By taking true for false, or false for 

true ; 
Here, thro' the feeble twilight of this 
world 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



251 



Groping, how many, until we pass and 

reach 
That other, where we see as we are 

seen ! 

So fared it with Geraint, who issu- 
ing forth 
That morning, Avhen they both had 

got to horse, 
Perhaps because he loved her passion- 
ately, 
And felt that tempest brooding round 

his heart, 
Which, if he spoke at all, would break 

perforce 
Upon a head so dear in thunder, said : 
" Not at my side. I charge thee ride 

before, 
Ever a good way on before ; and this 
I charge thee, on thy duty as a wife, 
Whatever happens, not to speak to 

me, 
No, not a word ! " and Enid was 

aghast ; 
And forth they rode, but scarce three 

paces on, 
When crying out, "Effeminate as I 

am, 
I will not fight my way with gilded 

arms, 
All shall be iron ; " he loosed a mighty 

purse, 
Hung at his belt, and hurl'd it toward 

the squire. 
So the last sight that Enid had of 

home 
Was all the marble threshold flashing, 

strown 
With gold and scatter'd coinage, and 

the squire 
Chafing his shoulder: then he cried 

again, 
" To the wilds ! " and Enid leading 

down the tracks 
Thro' which he bade her lead him on, 

they past 
The marches, and by bandit-haunted 

holds, 
Gray swamps and pools, waste places 

of the hern, 
And wildernesses, perilous paths, they 

rode: 



Round was their pace at first, but 
slackened soon : 

A stranger meeting them had surely 
thought 

They rode so slowly and they look'd 
so pale, 

That each had suffer'd some exceed- 
ing wrong. 

For he was ever saying to himself, 

"01 that wasted time to tend upon 
her, 

To compass her with sweet obser- 
vances, 

To dress her beautifully and keep her 
true " — 

And there he broke the sentence in 
his heart 

Abruptly, as a man upon his tongue 

May break it, when his passion mas- 
ters him. 

And she was ever praying the sweet 
heavens 

To save her dear lord whole from any 
wound. 

And ever in her mind she cast 
about 

For that unnoticed failing in herself, 

Which made him look so cloudy and 
so cold; 

Till the great plover's human whistle 
amazed 

Her heart, and glancing round the 
waste she fear'd 

In every wavering brake an ambus- 
cade. 

Then thought again, " If there be such 
in me, 

I might amend it by the grace of 
Heaven, 

If he would only speak and tell me of 
it." 

But when the fourth part of the day 

was gone, 
Then Enid was aware of three tall 

knights 
On horseback, wholly arm'd, behind a 

rock 
In shadow, waiting for them, caitiffs 

all; 
And heard one crying to his fellow, 

" Look, 



252 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



Here comes a laggard hanging down 

his head, 
Who seems no bolder than a beaten 

hound ; 
Come, we will slay him and will have 

his horse 
And armor, and his damsel shall be 

ours." 

Then Enid ponder'd in her heart, 

and said : 
" I will go back a little to my lord, 
And I will tell him all their caitiff 

talk ; 
For, be he wroth even to slaying me, 
Far liefer by his dear hand had I die, 
Than that my lord should suffer loss 

or shame." 

Then she went back some paces of 

return, 
Met his full frown timidly firm, and 

said; 
" My lord, I saw three bandits by the 

rock 
Waiting to fall on you, and heard 

them boast 
That they would slay you, and possess 

your horse 
And armor, and your damsel should 

be theirs." 

He made a wrathful answer : " Did 

I wish 
Your warning or your silence 1 one 

command 
I laid upon you, not to speak to me, 
And thus ye keep it ! Well then, look 

— for now, 
Whether ye wish me victory or defeat, 
Long for my life, or hunger for my 

death, 
Yourself shall see my vigor is not 

lost." 

Then Enid waited pale and sorrow- 
ful, 

And down upon him bare the bandit 
three. 

And at the midmost charging, Prince ' 
Geraint 



Drave the long spear a cubit thro' his 

breast 
And out beyond; and then against his 

brace 
Of comrades, each of whom had 

broken on him 
A lance that splinter'd like an icicle, 
Swung from his brand a windy buffet 

out 
Once, twice, to right, to left, and 

stunn'd the twain 
Or slew them, and dismounting like a 

man 
That skins the wild beast after slaying 

him, 
Stript from the three dead wolves of 

woman born 
The three gay suits of armor which 

they wore, 
And let the bodies lie, but bound the 

suits 
Of armor on their horses, each on each, 
And tied the bridle-reins of all the 

three 
Together, and said to her, "Drive 

them on 
Before you;" and she drove them 

thro' the waste. 

He f ollow'd nearer : ruth began to 

work 
Against his anger in him, while he 

watch'd 
The' being he loved best in all the 

world, 
With difficulty in mild obedience 
Driving them on : he fain had spoken 

to her, 
And loosed in words of sudden fire the 

wrath 
And smoulder'd wrong that burnt him 

all within ; 
But evermore it seem'd an easier thing 
At once without remorse to strike her 

dead, 
Than to cry " Halt," and to her own 

bright face 
Accuse her of the least immodesty : 
And thus tongue-tied, it made him 

wroth the more 
That she could speak whom his own 

ear had heard 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



253 



Call herself false : and suffering thus 

he made 
Minutes an age : but in scarce longer 

time 
Than at Caerleon the full-tided Usk, 
Before he turn to fall seaward again, 
Pauses, did Enid, keeping watch, be- 
hold 
In the first shallow shade of a deep 

wood, 
Before a gloom of stubborn-shafted 

oaks, 
Three other horsemen waiting, wholly 

arm'd, 
Whereof one seem'd far larger than 

her lord, 
And shook her pulses, crying, " Look, 

a prize ! 
Three horses and three goodly suits 

of arms, 
And all in charge of whom 1 a girl : 

set on." 
" Nay," said the second, " yonder 

comes a knight." 
The third, " A craven ; how he hangs 

his head." 
The giant answer'd merrily, " Yea, but 

one? 
Wait here, and when he passes fall 

upon him." 

And Enid ponder'd in her heart and 

said, 
"I will abide the coming of my lord, 
And I will tell him all their villany. 
My lord is weary with the fight before, 
And they will fall upon him unawares. 
I needs must disobey him for his 

good ; 
How should I dare obey him to his 

harm ? 
Needs must I speak, and tho' he kill 

me for it, 
I save a life dearer to me than mine." 



And she abode his coming, and said 

to him 
With timid firmness, "Have I leave 

to speak 1 " 
Be said, "Ye take it, speaking," and 

she spoke. 



"There lurk three villains yonder 

in the wood, 
And each of them is wholly arm'd, 

and one 
Is larger-limb'd than you are, and they 

say 
That they will fall upon you while ye 



To which he flung a wrathful an- 
swer back : 

" And if there were an hundred in the 
wood, 

And every man were larger-limb'd 
than I, 

And all at once should sally out upon 
me, 

I swear it would not ruffle me so much 

As you that not obey me. Stand 
aside, 

And if I fall, cleave to the better 
man." 

And Enid stood aside to wait the 

event, 
Not dare to watch the combat, only 

breathe 
Short fits of prayer, at every stroke a 

breath. 
And he, she dreaded most, bare down 

upon him. 
Aim'd at the helm, his lance err'd ; but 

Geraint's, 
A little in the late encounter strain 'd, 
Struck thro' the bulky bandit's corse- 
let home, 
And then brake short, and down his 

enemy roll'd, 
And there lay still; as he that tells 

the tale 
Saw once a great piece of a promon- 
tory, 
That had a sapling growing on it, slide 
From the long shore-cliff's windy walls 

to the beach, 
And there lie still, and yet the sapling 

grew: 
So lay the man transfixt. His craven 

pair 
Of comrades making slowlier at the 

Prince, 



254 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



When now they saw their bulwark 

fallen, stood ; 
On whom the victor, to confound them 

more, 
Spurr'd with his terrible war-cry ; for 

as one, 
That listens near a torrent mountain- 
brook, 
All thro' the crash of the near cataract 

hears 
The drumming thunder of the huger 

fall 
At distance, were the soldiers wont to 

hear 
His voice in battle, and be kindled by 

it, 
And foemen scared, like that false 

pair who turn'd 
Flying, but, overtaken, died the death 
Themselves had wrought on many an 

innocent. 

Thereon Geraint, dismounting, 

pick'd the lance 
That pleased him best, and drew from 

those dead wolves 
Their three gay suits of armor, each 

from each, 
And bound them on their horses, each 

on each, 
And tied the bridle-reins of all the 

three 
Together, and said to her, " Drive 

them on 
Before you," and she drove them thro' 

the wood. 

He follow'd nearer still : the pain 

she had 
To keep them in the wild ways of the 

wood, 
Two sets of three laden with jingling 

arms, 
Together, served a ljttle to disedge 
The sharpness of that pain about her 

heart : 
And they themselves, like creatures 

gently born 
But into bad hands fall'n, and now so 

long 
By bandits groom'd, prick'd their light 

ears, and felt 



Her low firm voice and tender govern- 
ment. 

So thro' the green gloom of the wood 

they past, 
And issuing under open heavens be- 
held 
A little town with towers, upon a rock, 
And close beneath, a meadow gemlike 

chased 
In the brown wild, and mowers mow- 
ing in it : 
And down a rocky pathway from the 

place 
There came a fair-hair'd youth, that 

in his hand 
Bare victual for the mowers : and 

Geraint 
Had ruth again on Enid looking pale 
Then, moving downward to the 

meadow ground, 
He, when the fair-hair'd youth came 

by him, said, 
" Friend, let her eat ; the damsel is so 

faint." 
" Yea, willingly," replied the youth ; 

" and thou, 
My lord, eat also, tho' the fare is 

coarse, 
And only meet for mowers ; " then set 

down 
His basket, and dismounting on the 

sward 
They let the horses graze, and ate 

themselves. 
And Enid took a little delicately, 
Less having stomach for it than desire 
To close with her lord's pleasure ; but 

Geraint 
Ate all the mowers' victual unawares, 
And when he found all empty, was 

amazed ; 
And, "Boy," said he, "I have eaten 

all, but take 
A horse and arms for guerdon ; choose 

the best." 
He, reddening in extremity of delight, 
" My lord, you overpay me fifty-fold." 
" Ye will be all the wealthier," cried 

the Prince. 
" I take it as free gift, then," said the 

hoy, 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



255 



" Not guerdon ; for myself can easily, 
While your good damsel rests, return, 

and fetch 
Fresh victual for these mowers of our 

Earl; 
For these are his, and all the field is 

his, 
And I myself am his ; and I will tell 

him 
How great a man thou art : he loves 

to know 
When men of mark are in his terri- 
tory: 
And he will have thee to his palace 

here, 
And serve thee costlier than with 

mowers' fare." 

Then said Geraint, "I wish no better 
fare : 

I never ate with angrier appetite 

Than when I left your mowers dinner- 
less. 

And into no Earl's palace will I go. 

I know, God knows, too much of 
palaces ! 

And if he want me, let him come to 
me. 

But hire us some fair chamber for the 
night, 

And stalling for the horses, and re- 
turn 

With victual for these men, and let 
us know." 

"Yea, my kind lord," said the glad 
youth, and went, 

Held his head high, and thought him- 
self a knight, 

And up the rocky pathway disap- 
pear'd, 

Leading the horse, and they were left 
alone. 

But when the Prince had brought 

his errant eyes 
Home from the rock, sideways he let 

them glance 
At Enid, where she droopt : his own 

false doom, 
That shadow of mistrust should never 

cross 



Betwixt them, came upon him, and he 

sigh'd ; 
Then with another humorous ruth re- 

mark'd 
The lusty mowers laboring dinnerless, 
And watch'd the sun blaze on the 

turning scythe, 
And after nodded sleepily in the 

heat. 
But she, remembering her old ruin'd 

hall, 
And all the windy clamor of the daws 
About her hollow turret, pluck'd the 

grass 
There growing longest by the mead- 
ow's edge, 
And into many a listless annulet, 
Now over, now beneath her marriage 

ring 
Wove and unwove it, till the boy re- 

turn'd 
And told them of a chamber, and they 

went ; 
Where, after saying to her, "If ye 

will, 
Call for the woman of the house," to 

which 
She answer'd, "Thanks, my lord;" 

the two remain'd 
Apart by all the chamber's width, and 

mute 
As creatures voiceless thro' the fault 

of birth, 
Or two wild men supporters of a 

shield, 
Painted, who stare at open space, nor 

glance 
The one at other, parted by the shield. 

On a sudden, many a voice along 
the street, 
And heel against the pavement echo- 
ing, burst 
Their drowse ; and either started while 

the door, 
Push'd from without, drave backward 

to the wall, 
And midmost of a rout of roisterers, 
Femininely fair and dissolutely pale, 
Her suitor in old years before Geraint, 
Enter'd, the wild lord of the place, 
Limours. 



256 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



He moving up with pliant courtli- 
ness, 

Greeted Geraint full face, but 
stealthily, 

In the mid-warmth of welcome and 
graspt hand, 

Found Enid with the corner of his 
eye, 

And knew her sitting sad and solitary. 

Then cried Geraint for wine and 
goodly cheer 

To feed the sudden guest, and sump- 
tuously 

According to his fashion, bade the 
host 

Call in what men soever were his 
friends, 

And feast with these in honor of their 
Earl; 

"And care not for the cost; the cost 
is mine." 

And wine and food were brought, 

and Earl Limours 
Drank till he jested with all ease, and 

told 
Free tales, and took the word and 

play'd upon it, 
And made it of two colors ; for his 

talk, 
When wine and free companions 

kindled him, 
Was wont to glance and sparkle like 

a gem 
Of fifty facets ; thus he moved the 

Prince 
To laughter and his comrades to ap- 
plause. 
Then, when the Prince was merry, 

ask'd Limours, 
" Your leave, my lord, to cross the 

room, and speak 
To your good damsel there who sits 

apart, 
And seems so lonely ? " " My free 

leave," he said ; 
" Get her to speak : she doth not speak 

to me." 
Then rose Limours, and looking at his 

feet, 
Like him who tries the bridge he fears 

may fail, 



Crost and came near, lifted adoring 

eyes, 
Bow'd at her side and utter'd whisper- 

ingly : 

" Enid, the pilot star of my lone life, 
Enid, my early and my only love, 
Enid, the loss of whom hath turn'd me 

wild — 
What chance is this ? how is it I see 

you here ? 
Ye are in my power at last, are in my 

power. 
Yet fear me not : I call mine own self 

wild, 
But keep a touch of sweet civility 
Here in the heart of waste and wilder- 
ness. 
I thought, but that your father came 

between, 
In former days you saw me favorably. 
And if it were so do not keep it back: 
Make me a little happier: let me 

know it : 
Owe you me nothing for a life half- 
lost ? 
Yea, yea, the whole dear debt of all 

you are. 
And, Enid, you and he, I see with joy, 
Ye sit apart, you do not speak to him, 
You come with no attendance, page or 

maid, 
To serve you — doth he love you as of 

old? 
For, call it lovers' quarrels, yet I know 
Tho' men may bicker with the things 

they love, 
They would not make them laughable 

in all eyes, 
Not while they loved them ; and your 

wretched dress, 
A wretched insult on you, dumbly 

speaks 
Your story, that this man loves you 

no more. 
Your beauty is no beauty to him now: 
A common chance — right well I know 

it — pall'd — 
For I know men : nor will ye win him 

back, 
For the man's love once gone never 

returns. 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



257 



But here is one who loves you as of old ; 
With more exceeding passion than of 

old: 
Good, speak the word : my followers 

ring him round : 
He sits unarm'd ; I hold a finger up ; 
They understand : nay ; I do not mean 

blood : 
Nor need ye look so scared at what I 

say : 
My malice is no deeper than a moat, 
No stronger than a wall : there is the 

keep; 
He shall not cross us more; speak but 

the word : 
Or speak it not ; but then by Him that 

made me 
The one true lover whom you ever 

own'd, 
I will make use of all the power I have. 
O pardon me ! the madness of that 

hour. 
When first I parted from thee, moves 

me yet." 

At this the tender sound of his own 

voice 
And sweet self-pity, or the fancy of it 
Made his eye moist ; but Enid fear'd 

his eyes, 
Moist as they were, wine-heated from 

the feast ; 
And answer'd with such craft as 

women use, 
Guilty or guiltless, to stave off a 

chance 
That breaks upon them perilously, 

and said : 

"Earl, if you love me as in former 

years, 
And do not practise on me, come with 

morn, 
And snatch me from him as by 

violence ; 
Leave me to-night : I am weary to the 

death." 

Low at leave-taking, with his bran- 
dish'd plume 
Brushing his instep, bow'd the all- 
amorous Earl, 



And the stout Prince bade him a loud 

good-night. 
He moving homeward babbled to his 

men, 
How Enid never loved a man but him, 
Nor cared a broken egg-shell for her 

lord. 

But Enid left alone with Prince 
Geraint, 

Debating his command of silence 
given, 

And that she now perforce must vio- 
late it, 

Held commune with herself, and while 
she held 

He fell asleep, and Enid had no heart 

To wake him, but hung o'er him, 
wholly pleased 

To find him yet unwounded after fight, 

And hear him breathing low anil 
equally. 

Anon she rose, and stepping lightly, 
heap'd 

The pieces of his armor in one place, 

All to be there against a sudden need ; 

Then dozed awhile herself, but over- 
toil'd 

By that day's grief and travel, ever- 
more 

Seem'd catching at a rootless thorn, 
and then 

Went slipping down horrible prec- 
ipices, 

And strongly striking out her limbs 
awoke ; 

Then thought she heard the wild Earl 
at the door, 

With all his rout of random followers, 

Sound on a dreadful trumpet, sum- 
moning her ; 

Which was the red cock shouting to 
the light, 

As the gray dawn stole o'er the dewy 
world, 

And glimmer'd on his armor in the 
room. 

And once again she rose to look at it, 

But touch'd it unawares: jangling, 
the casque 

Eell, and he started up and stared at 
her. 



258 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



Then breaking his command of silence 

given, 
She told him all that Earl Limours 

had said, 
Except the passage that he loved her 

not; 
Nor left untold the craft herself had 

used ; 
But ended with apology so sweet, 
Low-spoken, and of so few words, and 

seem'd 
So justified by that necessity, 
That tho' he thought " was it for him 

she wept 
In Devon 1 " he but gave a wrathful 

groan, 
Saying, " Your sweet faces make good 

fellows fools 
And traitors. Call the host and bid 

him bring 
Charger and palfrey." So she glided 

out 
Among the heavy breathings of the 

house, 
And like a household Spirit at the 

walls 
Beat, till she woke the sleepers, and 

return'd : 
Then tending her rough lord, tho' all 

unask'd, 
In silence, did him service as a squire ; 
Till issuing arm'd he found the host 

and cried, 
"Thy reckoning, friend 1 " and ere he 

learnt it, " Take 
Five horses and their armors " ; and 

the host 
Suddenly honest, answer'd in amaze, 
"My lord, I scarce have spent the 

worth of one ! " 
" Ye will be all the wealthier," said 

the Prince, 
And then to Enid, " Forward ! and 

to-day 
I charge you, Enid, more especially, 
Wha.t thing soever ye may hear, or see, 
Or fancy (tho' I count it of small use 
To charge you) that ye speak not but 

obey." 

And Enid answer'd, " Yea, my lord, 
I know 



Your wish, and would obey ; but rid- 
ing first, 

I hear the violent threats you do not 
hear, 

I see the danger which you cannot see : 

Then not to give you warning, that 
seems hard ; 

Almost beyond me: yet I would 
obey." 

" Yea so," said he, " do it : be not 

too wise ; 
Seeing that ye are wedded to a man, 
Not all mismated with a yawning 

clown, 
But one with arms to guard his head 

and 3'ours, 
With eyes to find you out however 

far, 
And ears to hear you even in his 

dreams." 

With that he turn'd and look'd as 
keenly at her 

As careful robins eye the delver's 
toil; 

And that within her, which a wanton 
fool, 

Or hasty judger would havecall'd her 
guilt, 

Made her cheek burn and either eye- 
lid fall. 

And Geraint look'd and was not satis- 
fied. 

Then forward by a way which, 

beaten broad, 
Led from the territory of false 

Limours 
To the waste earldom of another earl, 
Doorm, whom his shaking vassals 

call'd the Bull, 
Went Enid with her sullen follower 

on. 
Once she look'd back, and when she 

saw him ride 
More near by many a rood than yes- 

termorn, 
It wellnigh made her cheerful ; till 

Geraint 
Waving an angry hand as who should 

say 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



25^ 



" Ye watch me," sadden'd all her heart 

again. 
But while the sun yet beat a dewy 

blade, 
The sound of many a heavily-gallop- 
ing hoof 
Smote on her ear, and turning round 

she saw 
Dust, and the points of lances bicker 

in it. 
Then not to disobey her lord's behest, 
And yet to give him warning, for he 

rode 
As if he heard not, moving back she 

held 
Her finger up, and pointed to the dust. 
At which the warrior in his obstinacy, 
Because she kept the letter of his 

word, 
Was in a manner pleased, and turning, 

stood. 
And in the moment after, wild 

Limours, 
Borne on a black* horse, like a thun- 
der-cloud 
Whose skirts are loosen'd by the 

breaking storm, 
Half ridden off with by the thing he 

rode, 
And all in passion uttering a &ry 

shriek, 
Dash'd on Geraint, who closed with 

him, and bore 
Down by the length of lance and arm 

beyond 
The crupper, and so left him stunn'd 

or dead, 
And overthrew the next that follow'd 

him, 
And blindly rush'd on all the rout 

behind. 
But at the flash and motion of the 

man 
They vanish'd panic-stricken, like a 

shoal 
Of darting fish, that on a summer 

morn 
Adown the crystal dykes at Camelot 
Come slipping o'er their shadows on 

the sand, 
But if a man who stands upon the 

brink 



But lift a shining hand against the 

sun, 
There is not left the twinkle of a fin 
Betwixt the cressy islets white in 

flower ; 
So, scared but at the motion of the 

man, 
Fled all the boon companions of the 

Earl, 
And left him lying in the public way; 
So vanish friendships only made in 

wine. 

Then like a stormy sunlight smiled 

Geraint, 
Who saw the chargers of the two that 

fell 
Start from their fallen lords, and 

wildly fly, 
Mixt with the flyers. " Horse and 

man," he said, 
" All of one mind and all right-honest 

friends ! 
Not a hoof left : and I methinks till 

now 
Was honest — paid with horses and 

with arms ; 
I cannot steal or plunder, no nor beg : 
And so what say ye, shall we strip 

him there 
Your lover? has your palfrey heart 

enough 
To bear his armor ? shall we fast, or 

dine? 
No % — then do thou, being right hon- 
est, pray 
That we may meet the horsemen of 

Earl Doorm, 
I too would still be honest." Thus 

he said : 
And sadly gazing on her bridle-reins, 
And answering not a word, she led the 

way. 

But as a man to whom a dreadful 

loss 
Falls in a far land and he knows it 

not, 
But coming back he learns it, and the 

loss 
So pains him that he sickens nigh to 

death ; 



260 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



So fared it with Geraint, who being 

prick'd 
In combat with the follower of 

Limours, 
Bled underneath his armor secretly, 
And so rode on, nor told his gentle 

wife 
What ail'd him, hardly knowing it 

himself, 
Till his eye darken'd and his helmet 

wagg'd ; 
And at a sudden swerving of the road, 
Tho' happily down on a bank of grass, 
The Prince, without a word, from his 

horse fell. 

* And Enid heard the clashing of his 

fall, 
Suddenly came, and at his side all 

pale 
Dismounting, loosed the fastenings of 

his arms, 
Nor let her true hand falter, nor blue 

eye 
Moisten, till she had lighted on his 

wound, 
And tearing off her veil of faded silk 
Had bared her forehead to the blister- 
ing sun, 
And swathed the hurt that drain'd her 

dear lord's life. 
Then after all was done that hand 

could do, 
She rested, and her desolation came 
Upon her, and she wept beside the 

way. 

And many past, but none regarded 
her, 

For in that realm of lawless turbu- 
lence, 

A woman weeping for her murder'd 
mate 

Was cared as much for as a summer 
shower : 

One took him for a victim of Earl 
Doorm, 

Nor dared to waste a perilous pity on 
him : 

Another hurrying past, a man-at-arms, 

Rode on a mission to the bandit Earl ; 



Half whistling and half singing a 

coarse song, 
He drove the dust against her veilless 

eyes : 
Another, flying from the wrath of 

Doorm 
Before an ever-fancied arrow, made 
The long way smoke beneath him in 

his fear ; 
At which her palfrey whinnying lifted 

heel 
And scour'd into the coppices and was 

lost, 
While the great charger stood, grieved 

like a man. 

But at the point of noon the huge 

Earl Doorm, 
Broad-faced with under-fringe of rus- 
set beard, 
Bound on a foray, rolling eyes of 

prey, 
Came riding with a hundred lances 

up; 
But ere he came, like one that hails a 

ship, 
Cried out with a big voice, " What, is 

he dead ? " 
" No, no, not dead ! " she answer'd in 

all haste. 
" Would some of your kind people 

take him up, 
And bear him hence out of this cruel 

sun? 
Most sure am I, quite sure, he is not 

dead." 

Then said Earl Doorm : " Well, if 

he be not dead, 
Why wail ye for him thus ? ye seem a 

child. 
And be he dead, I count you for a 

fool; 
Your wailing will not quicken him : 

dead or not, 
Ye mar a comely face with idiot tears. 
Yet, since the face is comely — some 

of you, 
Here, take him up, and bear him to 

our hall : 
An if he live, we will have him of our 

band: 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



261 



And if he die, why earth has earth 

enough 
To hide him. See ye take the charger 

too, 
A noble one." 



He spake, and past away, 
But left two brawny spearmen, who 

advanced, 
Each growling like a dog, when his 

good bone 
Seems to be pluck'd at by the village 

boys 
Who love to vex him eating, and he 

fears 
To lose his bone, and lays his foot 

upon it, 
Gnawing and growling : so the ruffians 

growl'd, 
Fearing to lose, and all for a dead 

man, 
Their chance of booty from the morn- 
ing's raid, 
Yet raised and laid him on a litter- 
bier, 
Such as they brought upon their forays 

out 
For those that might be wounded ; laid 

him on it 
All in the hollow of his shield, and 

took 
And bore him to the naked hall of 

Doorm, 
(His gentle charger following him 

unled) 
And cast him and the bier in which 

he lay 
Down on an oaken settle in the 

hall, 
And then departed, hot in haste to 

join 
Their luckier mates, but growling as 

before, 
And cursing their lost time, and the 

dead man, 
And their own Earl, and their own 

souls, and her. 
They might as well have blest her: 

she was deaf 
To blessing or to cursing save from 

one. 



So for long hours sat Enid by her 
lord, 

There in the naked hall, propping his 
head, 

And chafing his pale hands, and call- 
ing to him. 

Till at the last he waken'd from his 
swoon, 

And found his own dear bride prop- 
ping, his head, 

And chafing his faint hands, and 
calling to him ; 

And felt the warm tears falling on his 
face; 

And said to his own heart, " She weeps 
for me " : 

And yet lay still, and feign'd himself 
as dead, 

That he might prove her to the utter- 
most, 

And say to his own heart, " She weeps 
for me." 

But in the falling afternoon returned 
The huge Earl Doorm with plunder 

to the hall. 
His lusty spearmen followed him with 

noise : 
Each hurling down a heap of things 

that rang 
Against the pavement, cast his lance 

aside, 
And doff d his helm : and then there 

flutter'd in, 
Half-bold, half-frighted, with dilated 

eyes, 
A tribe of women, dress'd in many 

hues, 
And mingled with the spearmen : and 

Earl Doorm 
Struck with a knife's haft hard 

against the board, 
And call'd for flesh and wine to feed 

his spears. 
And men brought in whole hogs and 

quarter beeves, 
And all the hall was dim with steam 

of flesh : 
And none spake word, but all sat 

down at once, 
And ate with tumult in the naked 

hall. 



262 



G BRAIN T AND ENID. 



Feeding like horses when you hear 

them feed; 
Till Enid shrank far back into herself, 
To shun the wild ways of the lawless 

tribe. 
But when Earl Doorm had eaten all 

he would, 
He roll'd his eyes about the hall, and 

found 
A damsel drooping in a corner of it. 
Then he remember'd her, and how she 

wept; 
And out of her there came a power 

upon him ; 
And rising on the sudden he said, 

" Eat ! 
I never yet beheld a thing so pale. 
God's curse, it makes me mad to see 

you weep. 
Eat ! Look yourself. Good luck had 

your good man, 
For were I dead who is it would 

weep for me ? 
Sweet lady, never since I first drew 

breath 
Have I beheld a lily like yourself. 
And so there lived some color in your 

cheek, 
There is not one among my gentle- 
women 
Were fit to wear your slipper for a 

glove. 
But listen to me, and by me be 

ruled, 
And I will do the thing I have not 

done, 
For ye shall share my earldom with 

me, girl, 
And we will live like two birds in one 

nest, 
And I will fetch you forage from all 

fields, 
For I compel all creatures to my will." 

He spoke: the brawny spearman 
let his cheek 

Bulge with the unswallow'd piece, and 
turning stared ; 

While some, whose souls the old ser- 
pent long had drawn 

Down, as the worm draws in the 
wither'd leaf 



And makes it earth, hiss'd each at 

other's ear 
What shall not be recorded — women 

they, 
Women, or what had been those 

gracious things, 
But now desired the humbling of their 

best, 
Yea, would have help'd him to it : and 

all at once 
They hated her, who took no thought 

of them, 
But answer'd in low voice, her meek 

head yet 
Drooping, " I pray you of your cour- 
tesy, 
He being as he is, to let me be." 

She spake so low he hardly heard 
her speak, 

But like a mighty patron, satisfied 

With what himself had done so gra- 
ciously, 

Assumed that she had thank'd him, 
adding, " Yea, 

Eat and be glad, for I account you 
mine." 

She answer'd meekly, " How should 
I be glad 

Henceforth in all the world at any- 
thing, 

Until my lord arise and look upon 
me? " 

Here the huge Earl cried out upon 
her talk, 

As all but empty heart and weariness 

And sickly nothing; suddenly seized 
on her, 

And bare her by main violence to the 
board, 

And thrust the dish before her, cry- 
ing, " Eat." 



" No, no," said Enid, vext, " I will 

not eat 
Till yonder man upon the bier arise 
And eat with me." " Drink, then/ 

he answer'd. " Here ! " 
(And fill'd a horn with wine and held 

it to her,) 



: 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



263 



"Lo! I, myself, when flush'd with 

fight, or hot, 
God's curse, with anger — often I 

myself, 
Before I well have drunken, scarce 

can eat : 
Drink therefore and the wine will 

change your will." 

" Not so," she cried, " By Heaven, I 

will not drink 
Till my dear lord arise and bid me do 

it, 
And drink with me; and if he rise no 

more, 
I will not look at wine until I die." 

At this he turn'd all red and paced 

his hall, 
Now gnaw'd his under, now his upper 

lip, 
And coming up close to her, said at 

last : 
"Girl, for I see ye scorn my courte- 
sies, 
Take warning : yonder man is surely 

dead; 
And I compel all creatures to my 

will. 
Not eat nor drink'? And wherefore 

wail for one, 
Who put your beauty to this flout and 

scorn 
By dressing it in rags ? Amazed am 

I, 
Beholding how ye butt against my 

wish, 
That I forbear you thus : cross me 

no more. 
At least put oil' to please me this poor 

gown, 
This silken rag, this beggar-woman's 

weed : 
1 love that beauty should go beauti- 
fully : 
For see ye not my gentlewomen here, 
How gay, how suited to the house of 

one 
Who loves that beauty should go 

beautifully i 
Rise therefore ; robe yourself in this : 

obey." 



He spoke, and one among his gen- 
tle women 
Display'd a splendid silk of foreign 

loom, 
Where like a shoaling sea the lovely 

blue 
Play'd into green, and thicker down 

the front 
With jewels than the sward with 

drops of dew, 
When all night long a cloud clings 

to the hill, 
And with the dawn ascending lets the 

day 
Strike where it clung: so thickly 

shone the gems. 

But Enid answer'd, harder to be 
moved 

Than hardest tyrants in their day of 
power, 

With life-long injuries burning un- 
avenged, 

And now their hour has come ; and 
Enid said : 

" In this poor gown my dear lord 

found me first, 
And loved me serving in my father's 

hall: 
In this poor gown I rode with him to 

court, 
And there the Queen array'd me like 

the sun : 
In this poor gown he bade me clothe 

myself, 
When now we rode upon this fatal 

quest 
Of honor, where no honor can be 

gain'd : 
And this poor gown I will not cast 

aside 
Until himself arise a living man, 
And bid me cast it. I have griefs 

enough : 
Pray you be gentle, pray you let me 

be: 
I never loved, can never love but him: 
Yea, God, I pray you of your gentle* 

ness, 
He being as he is, to let me be." 



264 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



Then strode the brute Earl up and 

down his hall, 
And took his russet beard between his 

teeth ; 
Last, coming up quite close, and in his 

mood 
Crying, " I count it of no more avail, 
Dame, to be gentle than ungentle with 

you; 
Take my salute," unknightly with flat 

hand, 
However lightly, smote her on the 

cheek. 

Then Enid, in her utter helplessness, 
And since she thought, " He had not 

dared to do it, 
Except he surely knew my lord was 

dead," 
Sent forth a sudden sharp and bitter 

cry, 
As of a wild thing taken in the trap, 
Which sees the trapper coming thro' 

the wood. > 

This heard Geraint, and grasping at 

his sword, 
(It lay beside him in the hollow 

shield), 
Made but a single bound, and with a 

sweep of it 
Shore thro' the swarthy neck, and like 

a ball 
The russet-bearded head rolPd on the 

floor. 
So died Earl Doorm by him he counted 

dead. 
And all the men and women in the 

hall 
Rose when they saw the dead man 

rise, and fled 
Yelling as from a spectre, and the two 
Were left alone together, and he said : 

" Enid, I have used you worse than 

that dead man ; 
Done you more wrong : we both have 

undergone 
That trouble which has left me thrice 

your own : 
Henceforward I will rather die than \ 

doubt. i 



And here I lay this penance on my- 
self, 

Not, tho' mine own ears heard you 
yestermorn — 

You thought me sleeping, but I heard 
you say, 

I heard you say, that you were no true 
wife : 

I swear I will not ask your meaning 
in it : 

I do believe yourself against yourself, 

And will henceforward rather die than 
doubt." 

And Enid could not say one tender 

word, 
She felt so blunt and stupid at the 

heart : 
She only pray' d him, " Fly, they will 

return * 

And slay you ; fly, your charger is 

without, 
My palfrey lost." " Then, Enid, shall 

you ride 
Behind me." " Yea," said Enid, " let 

us go." . 
And moving out they found the stately 

horse, 
Who now no more a vassal to the 

thief, 
But free to stretch his limbs in lawful 

fight, 
Neigh'd with all gladness as they 

came, and stoop'd 
With a low whinny toward the pair : 

and she 
Kiss'd the white star upon his noble 

front, 
Glad also; then Geraint upon the 

horse 
Mounted, and reach'd a hand, and on 

his foot 
She set her own and climb'd ; he turn'd 

his face 
And kiss'd her climbing, and she cast 

her arms 
About him, and at once they ro( 

away. 

And never yet, since high in Para 
dise 
O'er the four rivers the first roses blei 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



265 



Came purer pleasure unto mortal kind 
Than lived thro' her, who in that per- 
ilous hour 
Put hand to hand beneath her hus- 
band's heart, 
And felt him hers again : she did not 

weep, 
But o'er her meek eyes came a happy 

mist 
Like that which kept the heart of 

Eden green 
Before the useful trouble of the rain : 
Yet not so misty were her meek blue 

eyes 
As not to see before them on the path, 
Right in the gateway of the bandit 

hold, 
A knight of Arthur's court, who laid 

his lance 
In rest, and made as if to fall upon 

him. 
Then, fearing for his hurt and loss of 

blood, 
She, with her mind all full of what 

had chanced, 
Shriek'd to the stranger " Slay not a 

dead man ! " 
" The voice of Enid," said the knight ; 

but she, 
Beholding it was Edj^rn son of Nudd, 
Was moved so much the more, and 

shriek'd again, 
" O cousin, slay not him who gave you 

life." 
And Edyrn moving frankly forward 

spake : 
" My lord Geraint, I greet you with 

all love; 
1 took you for a bandit knight of 

Doorm ; 
And fear not, Enid, I should fall upon 

him, 
Who love you, Prince, with something 

of the love 
Wherewith we love the Heaven that 

chastens us. 
For once, when I was up so high in 

pride 
That I was half-way down the slope 

to Hell, 
By overthrowing me you threw me 

higher. 



Now, made a knight of Arthur's Table 

Round, 
And since I knew this Earl, when I 

myself 
Was half a bandit in my lawless hour, 
I come the mouthpiece of our King to 

Doorm 
(The King is close behind me) bidding 

him 
Disband himself, and scatter all his 

powers, 
Submit, and hear the judgment of the 

King." 

" He hears the judgment of the King 

of kings," 
Cried the wan Prince ; " and lo, the 

powers of Doorm 
Are scatter'd," and he pointed to the 

field, 
Where, huddled here and there on 

mound and knoll, 
Were men and women staring and 

aghast, 
While some yet fled; and then he. 

plainlier told 
How the huge Earl lay slain within 

his hall. 
But when the knight besought him, 

" Follow me, 
Prince, to the camp, and in the King's 

own ear 
Speak what has chanced; ye surely 

have endured 
Strange chances here alone ; " that 

other flush'd, 
And hung his head, and halted in 

reply, 
Fearing the mild face of the blameless 

King, 
And after madness acted question 

ask'd : 
Till Edyrn crying, " If ye will not go 
To Arthur, then will Arthur come to 

you." 
" Enough," he said, " I follow," and 

they went. 
But Enid in their going had two fears, 
One from the bandit scatter'd in the 

field, 
And one from Edyrn. Every now 

and then, 



266 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



When Edyrn rein'd his charger at 

her side, 
She shrank a little. In a hollow land, 
From which old fires have broken, 

men may fear 
Fresh fire and ruin. He, perceiving, 

said : 

"Fair and dear cousin, you that 

most had cause 
To fear me, fear no longer, I am 

changed. 
Yourself were first the blameless 

cause to make 
My nature's prideful sparkle in the 

blood 
Break into furious flame; being re- 
pulsed 
By Yniol and yourself, I schemed and 

wrought 
Until I overturned him ; then set up 
(With one main purpose ever at my 

heart) 
My haughty jousts, and took a para- 
mour j 
Did her mock-honor as the fairest 

fair, 
And, toppling over all antagonism, 
So wax'd in pride, that I believed 

myself 
Unconquerable, for I was wellnigh 

mad : 
And, but for my main purpose in 

these jousts, 
I should have slain your father, seized 

yourself. 
I lived in hope that sometime you 

would come 
To these my lists with him whom best 

you loved; 
And there, poor cousin, with your 

meek blue eyes, 
The truest eyes that ever answer'd 

Heaven, 
Behold me overturn and trample on 

him. 
Then, had you cried, or knelt, or 

pray'd to me, 
I should not less have kill'd him. 

And you came, — 
But once you came, — and with your 

own true eyes 



Beheld the man you loved (I speak as 

one 
Speaks of a service done him) over- 
throw 
My proud self, and my purpose three 

years old, 
And set his foot upon me, and give 

me life. 
There was I broken down ; there was 

I saved : 
Tho' thence I rode all-shamed, hating 

the life 
He gave me, meaning to be rid of it. 
And all the penance the Queen laid 

upon me 
Was but to rest awhile within her 

court ; 
Where first as sullen as a beast new- 
caged, 
And waiting to be treated like a 

wolf, 
Because I knew my deeds were known, 

I found, 
Instead of scornful pity or pure scorn, 
Such fine reserve and noble reticence, 
Manners so kind, yet stately, such a 

grace 
Of tenderest courtesy, that I began 
To glance behind me at my former 

life, 
And find that it had been the wolf's 

indeed : 
And oft I talk'd with Dubric, the high 

saint, 
Who, with mild heat of holy oratory, 
Subdued me somewhat to that gentle- 
ness, 
Which, when it weds with manhood, 

makes a man. 
And you were often there about the 

Queen, 
But saw me not, or mark'd not if you 

saw; 
Nor did I care or dare to speak with 

you, 
But kept myself aloof till I was 

changed ; 
And fear not, cousin ; I am changed 
indeed." 

He spoke, and Enid easily believed, 
Like simple noble natures, credulous 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



267 



Of what they long for, good in friend 

or foe, 
There most in those who most have 

done them ill. 
And when they reach'd the camp the 

King himself 
Advanced to greet them, and behold- 
ing her 
Tho' pale, yet happy, ask'd her not a 

word, 
But went apart with Edyrn, whom he 

held 
In converse for a little, and returned, 
And, gravely smiling, lifted her from 

horse, 
And kiss'd her with all pureness, 

brother-like, 
And show'd an empty tent allotted 

her, 
And glancing for a minute, till he saw 

her 
Pass into it turn'd to the Prince, and 

said: 

"Prince, when of late ye pray'd me 

for my leave 
To move to your own land, and there 

defend 
Your marches, I was prick'd with 

some reproof, 
As one that let foul wrong stagnate 

and be, 
By having look'd too much thro' alien 

eyes, 
And wrought too long with delegated 

hands, 
Not used mine own : but now behold 

me come 
To cleanse this common sewer of all 

my realm, 
With Edyrn and with others : have 

ye look'd 
At Edyrn ? have ye seen how nobly 

changed ? 
This work of his is great and wonder- 
ful. 
His very face with change of heart is 

changed, 
The world will not believe a man 

repents : 
And this wise world of ours is mainly 

right. 



Full seldom doth a man repent, or use 
Both grace and will to pick the vicious 

quitch 
Of blood and custom wholly out of 

him, 
And make all clean, and plant himself 

afresh. 
Edyrn has done it, weeding all his 

heart 
As I will weed this land before I go. 
I, therefore, made him of our Table 

Round, 
Not rashly, but have proved him 

everyway 
One of our noblest, our most valorous, 
Sanest and most obedient: and indeed 
This work of Edyrn wrought upon 

himself 
After a life of violence, seems to me 
A thousand-fold more great and won- 
derful 
Than if some knight of mine, risking 

his life, 
My subject with my subjects under 

him, 
Should make an onslaught single on 

a realm 
Of robbers, tho' he slew them one by 

one, 
And were himself nigh wounded to 

the death." 

So spake the King ; low bow'd the 

Prince, and felt 
His work was neither great nor won- 
derful, 
And past to Enid's tent ; and thither 

came 
The King's own leech to look into his 

hurt; 
And Enid tended on him there ; and 

there 
Her constant motion round him, and 

the breath 
Of her sweet tendance hovering over 

him, 
Fill'd all the genial courses of his 

blood 
With deeper and with ever deeper 

love, 
As the south-west that blowing Bala 

lake 



268 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



Fills all the sacred Dee. So past the 
days. 

But while Geraint lay healing of 

his hurt, 
The blameless King went forth and 

cast his eyes 
On each of all whom Uther left in 

charge 
Long since, to guard the justice of the 

King: 
He look'd and found them wanting ; 

and as now 
Men weed the white horse on the 

Berkshire hills 
To keep him bright and clean as here- 
tofore, 
He rooted out the slothful officer 
Or guilty, which for bribe had wink'd 

at wrong, 
And in their chairs set up a stronger 

race 
With hearts and hands, and sent a 

thousand men 
To till the wastes, and moving every- 
where 
Clear'd the dark places and let in the 

law, 
And broke the bandit holds and 

cleansed the land. 

Then, when Geraint was whole 

again, they past 
With Arthur to Caerleon upon Usk. 
There the great Queen once more em- 
braced her friend, 
And clothed her in apparel like the 

day. 
And tho' Geraint could never take 

again 
That comfort from their converse 

which he took 
Before the Queen's fair name was 

breathed upon, 
He rested well content that all was 

well. 
Thence after tarrying for a space they 

rode, 
And fifty knights rode with them to 

the shores 
Of Severn, and they past to their own 

land. 



And there he kept the justice of the 

King 
So vigorously yet mildly, that all 

hearts 
Applauded, and the spiteful whisper 

died : 
And being ever foremost in the chase, 
And victor at the tilt and tournament, 
They call'd him the great Prince and 

man of men. 
But Enid, whom the ladies loved to 

call 
Enid the Fair, a grateful people 

named 
Enid the Good ; and in their halls 

arose 
The cry of children, Enids and 

Geraints 
Of times to be ; nor did he doubt her 

more, 
But rested in her fealty, till he 

crown'd 
A happy life with a fair death, and 

fell 
Against the heathen of the Northern 

Sea 
In battle, fighting for the blameless 

King. 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 

A storm was coming, but the winds 

were still, 
And in the wild woods of Broceliande, 
Before an oak, so hollow, huge and 

old 
It look'd a tower of ruin'd masonwork, 
At Merlin's feet the wily Vivien lay. 



Whence came she ? One that bare 
in bitter grudge 
The scorn of Arthur and his Table, 

Mark 
The Cornish King, had heard a wan- 
dering voice, 
A minstrel of Caerleon by strong storm 
Blown into shelter at Tintagil, say 
That out of naked knightlike purity 
Sir Lancelot worshipt no unmarried 
girl 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN 



269 



But the great Queen herself, fought 
in her name, 

Sware by her — vows like theirs, that 
high in heaven 

Love most, but neither marry, nor are 
given 

In marriage, angels of our Lord's re- 
port. 

He ceased, and then — for Vivien 

sweetly said 
(She sat beside the banquet nearest 

Mark), 
" And is the fair example follow'd, 

Sir, 
In Arthur's household? " — answer'd 

innocently : 

" Ay, by some few — ay, truly — 
youths that hold 

It more beseems the perfect virgin 
knight 

To worship woman as true wife be- 
yond 

All hopes of gaining, than as maiden 
girl. 

They place their pride in Lancelot and 
the Queen. 

So passionate for an utter purity 

Beyond the limit of their bond, are 
these, 

For Arthur bound them not to single- 
ness. 

Brave hearts and clean! and yet — 
God guide them — young." 



Then Mark was half in heart to 

hurl his cup 
Straight at the speaker, but forbore : 

he rose 
To leave the hall, and, Vivien follow- 
ing him, 
Turn'd to her : " Here are snakes 

within the grass; 
And you methinks, O Vivien, save ye 

fear 
The monkish manhood, and the mask 

of pure 
Worn by this court, can stir them till 

they sting." 



And Vivien answer'd, smiling scorn- 
fully, 
" Why fear 1 because that foster'd at 

thy court 
I savor of thy — virtues 'i fear them 1 

no. 
As Love, if Love be perfect, casts out 

fear, 
So Hate, if Hate be perfect, casts out 

fear. 
My father died in battle against the 

King, 
My mother on his corpse in open field ; 
She bore me there, for born from 

death was I 
Among the dead and sown upon the 

wind — 
And then on thee! and shown the 

truth betimes, 
That old true filth, and bottom of the 

well, 
Where Truth is hidden. Gracious 

lessons thine 
And maxims of the mud ! ' This 

Arthur pure ! 
Great Nature thro' the flesh herself 

hath made 
Gives him the lie ! There is no being 

pure, 
My cherub ; saith not Holy Writ the 

same ? ' — 
If I were Arthur, I would have thy 

blood. 
Thy blessing, stainless King! I bring 

thee back, 
When I have ferreted out their bur- 
rowings, 
The hearts of all this Order in mine 

hand — 
Ay — so that fate and craft and folly 

close, 
Perchance, one curl of Arthur's 

golden beard. 
To me this narrow grizzled fork of 

thine 
Is cleaner-fashion'd — Well, I loved 

thee first, 
That warps the wit." 

Loud laugh'd the graceless Mark. 
But Vivien into Camelot stealing, 
lodged 



270 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN 



Low in the city, and on a festal day 
When Guinevere was crossing the 

great hall 
Cast herself down, knelt to the Queen, 

and wail'd. 

" Why kneel ye there 1 What evil 

have ye wrought ? 
Rise ! " and the damsel bidden rise 

arose 
And stood with folded hands and 

downward eyes 
Of glancing corner, and all meekly 

said, 
"None wrought, but suffer'd much, 

an orphan maid ! 
My father died in battle for thy King, 
My mother on his corpse — in open 

field, 
The sad sea-sounding wastes of Lyon- 

esse — 
Poor wretch — no friend ! — and now 

by Mark the King 
For that small charm of feature mine, 

pursued — 
If any such be mine — I fly to thee. 
Save, save me thou — Woman of 

women — thine 
The wreath of beauty, thine the crown 

of power, 
Be thine the balm of pity, O Heaven's 

own white 
Earth-angel, stainless bride of stain- 
less King — 
Help, for he follows ! take me to thy- 
self! 
yield me shelter for mine innocency 
Among thy maidens ! " 

Here her slow sweet eyes 

Fear-tremulous, but humbly hopeful, 
rose 

Fixt on her hearer's, while the Queen 
who stood 

All glittering like May sunshine on 
May leaves 

In green and gold, and plumed with 
green replied, 

"Peace, child ! of overpraise and over- 
blame 

We choose the last. Our noble 
Arthur, him 



Ye scarce can overpraise, will hear 

and know. 
Nay — we believe all evil of thy 

Mark — 
Well, we shall test thee farther ; but 

this hour 
We ride a-hawking with Sir Lancelot. 
He hath given us a fair falcon which 

he train'd ; 
We go to prove it. Bide ye here the 

while." 

She past; and Vivien murmur'd 

after " Go ! 
I bide the while." Then thro' the 

portal-arch 
Peering askance, and muttering 

broken-wise, 
As one that labors with an evil dream, 
Beheld the Queen and Lancelot get to 

horse. 

" Is that the Lancelot ? goodly — 
ay, but gaunt : 

amends for gauntness — 



but for the 



lingers 



Courteous 

takes her hand 
That glance of theirs, 

street, had been 
A clinging kiss — how hand 

in hand! 
Let go at last ! — they ride away — 

to hawk 
For waterfowl. Royaller game Is 

mine. 
For such a supersensual sensual bond 
As that gray cricket chirpt of at our 

hearth — 
Touch flax with flame — a glance will 

serve — the liars ! 
Ah little rat that borest in the dyke 
Thy hole by night to let the boundless 

deep 
Down upon far-off cities while they 

dance — 
Or dream — of thee they dream'd not 

— nor of me 
These — ay, but each of either : ride ; 

and dream 
The mortal dream that never yet was 

mine — 
Ride, ride and dream until ye wake — 

to me ! 






MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



in 



Then, narrow court and lubber King, 

farewell ! 
For Lancelot will be gracious to the 

rat, 
And our wise Queen, if knowing that 

I know, 
Will hate, loathe, fear — but honor 

me the more." 

Yet while they rode together down 

the plain, 
Their talk was all of training, terms 

of art, 
Diet and seeling, jesses, leash and lure. 
" She is too noble " he said " to check 

at pies, 
Nor will she rake : there is no base- 
ness in her." 
Here when the Queen demanded as by 

chance 
" Know ye the stranger woman ? " 

" Let her be," 
Said Lancelot and unhooded casting 

off 
The goodly falcon free ; she tower'd ; 

her bells, 
Tone under tone, shrill'd; and they 

lifted up 
Their eager faces, wondering at the 

strength, 
Boldness and royal knighthood of the 

bird 
Who pounced her quarry and slew it. 

Many a time 
As once — of old — among the flowers 

— they rode. 

But Vivien half-forgotten of the 

Queen 
Among her damsels broidering sat, 

heard, watch'd 
And whisper'd : thro' the peaceful 

court she crept 
And whisper'd : then as Arthur in the 

highest 
Leaven'd the world, so Vivien in the 

lowest, 
Arriving at a time of golden rest, 
And sowing one ill hint from ear to 

ear, 
While all the heathen lay at Arthur's 

feet, 



And no quest came, but all was joust 

and play, 
Leaven'd his hall. They heard and 

let her be. 



Thereafter as an enemy that has left 
Death in the living waters, and with- 
drawn, 
The wily Vivien stole from Arthur's 
court. 



She hated all the knights, and heard 

in thought 
Their lavish comment when her name 

was named. 
For once, when Arthur walking all 

alone, 
Vext at a rumor issued from herself 
Of some corruption crept among his 

knights, 
Had met her, Vivien, being greeted 

fair, 
Would fain have wrought upon his 

cloudy mood 
With reverent eyes mock-loyal, 

shaken voice, 
And flutter'd adoration, and at last 
With dark sweet hints of some who 

prized him more 
Than who should prize him most ; at 

which the King 
Had gazed upon her blankly and gone 

by: 
But one had watch'd, and had not held 

his peace : 
It made the laughter of an afternoon 
That Vivien should attempt the 

blameless King. 
And after that, she set herself to gain 
Him, the most famous man of all 

those times, 
Merlin, who knew the range of all 

their arts, 
Had built the King his havens, ships, 

and halls, 
Was also Bard, and knew the starry 

heavens; 
The people call'd him Wizard; whom 

at first 
She play'd about with slight and 

sprightly talk, 



272 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN 



And vivid smiles, and f aintly-venom'd 

points 
Of slander, glancing here and grazing 

there ; 
And yielding to his kindlier moods, 

the Seer 
Would watch her at her petulance, 

and play, 
Ev'n when they seem'd unloveable, 

and laugh 
As those that watch a kitten ; thus he 

grew 
Tolerant of what he half disdain'd, 

and she, 
Perceiving that she was but half dis- 
dain'd, 
Began to break her sports with graver 

fits, 
Turn red or pale, would often when 

they met 
Sigh fully, or all-silent gaze upon him 
With such a fixt devotion, that the old 

man, 
Tho' doubtful, felt the flattery, and at 

times 
Would flatter his own wish in age for 

love, 
And half believe her true : for thus at 

times 
He waver'd ; but that other clung to 

him, 
Fixt in her will, and so the seasons 

went. 

Then fell on Merlin a great melan- 
choly ; 
He walk'd with dreams and darkness, 

and he found 
A doom that ever poised itself to fall, 
An ever-moaning battle in the mist, 
World-war of dying flesh against the 

life, 
Death in all life and lying in all love, 
The meanest having power upon the 

highest, 
And the high purpose broken by the 
worm. 

So leaving Arthur's court he gain'd 
the beach ; 
There found a little boat, and stept 
into it ; 



And Vivien follow'd, but he mark'd 

her not. 
She took the helm and he the sail , 

the boat 
Drav'e with a sudden wind across the 

deeps, 
And touching Breton sands, they dis- 

embark'd. 
And then she follow'd Merlin all the 

way, ( 
Ev'n to the wild woods of Broceliande. 
For Merlin once had told her of a 

charm, 
The which if any wrought on anyone 
With woven paces and with waving 

arms, 
The man so wrought on ever seem'd 

to lie 
Closed in the four walls of a hollow 

tower, 
From which was no escape for ever- 
more; 
And none could find that man for 

evermore, 
Nor could he see but him who wrought 

the charm 
Coming and going, and he lay as dead 
And lost to life and use and name 

and fame. 
And Vivien ever sought to work the 

charm 
Upon the great Enchanter of the 

Time, 
As fancying that her glory would be 

great 
According to his greatness whom she 

quench'd. 

There lay she all her length and 

kiss'd his feet, 
As if in deepest reverence and in love. 
A twist of gold was round her hair ; a 

robe 
Of samite without price, that more 

exprest 
Than hid her, clung about her lissome 

limbs, 
In color like the satin-shining palm 
On sallows in the windy gleams of 

March : 
And while she kiss'd them, crying, 

" Trample me, ' 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



273 



Dear feet, that I have follow'd thro' 

the world, 
And I will pay you worship ; tread 

me down 
And I will kiss you for it;" he was 

mute : 
So dark a forethought rolPd about his 

brain, 
As on a dull day in an Ocean cave 
The blind wave feeling round his long 

sea-hall 
In silence : wherefore, when she lifted 

up 
A face of sad appeal, and spake and 

said, 
" O Merlin, do ye love me ? " and 

again, 
44 Merlin, do ye love me ? " and once 

more, 
u Great Master, do ye love me 1 " he 

was mute. 
And lissome Vivien, holding by his 

heel, 
Writhed toward him, slided up his 

knee and sat, 
Behind his ankle twined her hollow 

feet 
Together, curved an arm about his 

neck, 
Clung like a snake ; and letting her 

left hand 
Droop from his mighty shoulder, as a 

leaf, 
Made with her right a comb of pearl 

to part 
The lists of such a beard as youth gone 

out 
Had left in ashes : then he spoke and 

said, 
]£ot looking at her, " Who are wise in 

love 
Love most, say least," and Vivien 

answer'd quick, 
" I saw the little elf-god eyeless once 
In Arthur's arras hall at Camelot : 
But neither eyes nor tongue — 

stupid child ! 
Yet you are wise who say it ; let me 

think 
Silence is wisdom : I am silent then, 
And ask no kiss ;" then adding all at 

once, 



" And lo, I clothe myself with wis- 
dom," drew 
The vast and shaggy mantle of his 

beard 
Across her neck and bosom to her 

knee, 
And call'd herself a gilded summer fly 
Caught in a great old tyrant spider's 

web, 
Who meant to eat her up in that wild 

wood 
Without one word. So Vivien call'd 

herself, 
But rather seem'd a lovely baleful star 
Veil'd in gray vapor ; till he sadly 

smiled : 
"To what request for what strange 

boon," he said, 
"Are these your pretty tricks and 

fooleries, 

Vivien, the preamble 1 yet my 

thanks, 
For these have broken up my melan- 
choly." 
♦ 
And Vivien answer'd smiling sau- 
cily, 
" What, O my Master, have ye found 
your voice ? 

1 bid the stranger welcome. Thanks 

at last! 
But yesterday you never open'd lip, 
Except indeed to drink : no cup had 

we: 
In mine own lady palms I cull'd the 

spring 
That gathered trickling dropwise from 

the cleft, 
And made a pretty cup of both my 

hands 
And offered you it kneeling : then you 

drank 
And knew no more, nor gave me one 

poor word ; 
O no more thanks than might a goat 

have given 
With no more sign of reverence than 

a beard. 
And when we halted at that other 

well, 
And I was faint to swooning, and you 

lay 



274 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



Foot-gilt with all the blossom-dust of 

those 
Deep meadows we had traversed, did 

you know 
That Vivien bathed your feet before 

her own 1 
And yet no thanks : and all thro' this 

wild wood 
And all this morning when I fondled 

you: 
Boon, ay, there was a boon, one not 

so strange — 
How had I wrong'd you ? surely ye 

are wise, 
But such a silence is more wise than 

kind." 

And Merlin lock'd his hand in hers 

and said : 
" did ye never lie upon the shore, 
And watch the curl'd white of the 

coming wave 
Glass'd in the slippery sand before it 

breaks ? 
Ev'n such a wave, but not so* pleasur- 
able, 
Dark in the glass of some presageful 

mood, 
Had I for three days seen, ready to 

fall. 
And then I rose and fled from Arthur's 

court 
To break the mood. You follow'd me 

unask'd ; 
And when I look'd, and saw you fol- 
lowing still, 
My mind involved yourself the nearest 

thing 
In that mind-mist : for shall I tell you 

truth ? 
You seem'd that wave about to break 

upon me 
And sweep me from my hold upon the 

world, 
My use and name and fame. Your 

pardon, child. 
Your pretty sports have brighten'd all 

again. 
And ask your boon, for boon I owe 

you thrice, 
Once for wrong done you by confusion, 

next 



For thanks it seems till now neglected, 

last 
For these your dainty gambols : 

wherefore ask; 
And take this boon so strange and not 

so strange." 

And Vivien answer'd smiling mourn 

fully : 
" not so strange as my long asking 

it, 
Not yet so strange as you yourself are 

strange, 
Nor half so strange as that dark mood 

of yours. 
I ever fear'd ye were not wholly 

mine ; 
And see, yourself have own'd ye did 

me wrong. 
The people call you prophet: let it 

be: 
But not of those that can expound 

themselves. 
Take Vivien for expounder ; she will 

call 
That three-days-long presageful gloom 

of yours 
No presage, but the same mistrustful 

mood 
That makes you seem less noble than 

yourself, 
Whenever I have ask'd this very 

boon, 
Now ask'd again: for see you not, 

dear love, 
That such a mood as that, which 

lately gloom'd 
Your fancy when ye saw me follow- 
ing you, 
Must make me fear still more you are 

not mine, 
Must make me yearn still more to 

prove you mine, 
And make me wish still more to learn 

this charm 
Of woven paces and of waving hands, 
As proof of trust. O Merlin, teach it 

me. 
The charm so taught will charm us 

both to rest. 
For, grant me some slight power upon 

your fate, 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



275 



I, feeling that you felt me worthy 

trust, 
Should rest and let you rest, knowing 

you mine. 
And therefore be as great as ye are 

named, 
Not muffled round with selfish reti- 
cence. 
How hard you look and how deny- 

ingly ! 
O, if you think this wickedness in me, 
That I should prove it on you una- 
wares, 
That makes me passing wrathful ; then 

our bond 
Had best be loosed for ever : but 

think or not, 
By Heaven that hears I tell you the 

clean truth, 
As clean as blood of babes, as white 

as milk; 
O Merlin, may this earth, if ever I, 
If these unwitty wandering wits of 

mine, 
Ev'n in the jumbled rubbish of a 

dream, 
Have tript on such conjectural treach- 
ery- 
May this hard earth cleave to the 

Nadir hell 
Down, down, and close again, and nip 

me flat, 
If I be such* a traitress. Yield my 

boon, 
Till which I scarce can yield you all 

I am; 
And grant my re-reiterated wish, 
The great proof of your love : because 

I think, 
However wise, ye hardly know me 

yet." 

And Merlin loosed his hand from 

hers and said, 
" I never was less wise, however wise, 
Too curious Vivien, tho' you talk of 

trust, 
Than when I told you first of such a 

charm. 
Yea, if ye talk of trust I tell you this, 
Too much I trusted when I told you 

that, 



And stirr'd this vice in you which 

ruin'd man 
Thro' woman the first hour ; for 

howsoe'er 
In children a great curiousness be 

well, 
Who have to learn themselves and all 

the world, 
In you, that are no child, for still I 

find 
Your face is practised when I spell 

the lines, 
I call it, — well, I will not call it vice : 
But since you name yourself the 

summer fly, 
I well could wish a cobweb for the 

gnat, 
That settles, beaten back, and beaten 

back 
Settles, till one could yield for weari- 
ness: 
But since I will not yield to give you 

power 
Upon my life and use and name and 

fame, 
Why will ye never ask some other 

boon ? 
Yea, by God's rood, I trusted you too 

much." 



And Vivien, like the tenderest- 

hearted maid 
That ever bided tryst at village stile, 
Made answer, either eyelid wet with 

tears : 
"Nay, Master, be not wrathful with 

your maid ; 
Caress her : let her feel herself for- 
given 
Who feels no heart to ask another 

boon. 
I think ye hardly know the tender 

rhyme 
Of ' trust me not at all or all in all/ 
I heard the great Sir Lancelot sing it 

once, 
And it shall answer for me. Listen 

to it. 



In Love, if Love be Love, if Love 
be ours, 



276 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



Faith and unf aith can ne'er be equal 

powers : 
Unfaith in aught is want of faith in 

all. 

' It is the little rift within the lute, 
That by and by will make the music 

mute, 
And ever widening slowly silence all. 

' The little rift within the lover's 

lute 
Or little pitted speck in garner'd fruit, 
That rotting inward slowly moulders 

all. 

' It is not worth the keeping : let it 

go: 
But shall it ? answer, darling, answer, 

no. 
And trust me not at all or all in all.' 

Master, do ye love my tender 
rhyme 1 " 

And Merlin look'd and half believed 

her true, 
So tender was her voice, so fair her 

face, 
So sweetly gleam'd her eyes behind 

her tears 
Like sunlight on the plain behind a 

shower : 
And yet he answer'd half indignantly : 

" Far other was the song that once 

I heard 
By this huge oak, sung nearly where 

we sit : 
For here we met, some ten or twelve 

of us, 
To chase a creature that was current 

then 
In these wild woods, the hart with 

golden horns. 
It was the time when first the ques- 
tion rose 
About the founding of a Table Round, 
That was to be, for love of God and 

men 
And noble deeds, the flower of all the 

world. 



And each incited each to noble deeds. 
And while we waited, one, the young- 
est of us, 
We could not keep him silent, out he 

flash'd, 
And into such a song, such fire for 

fame, 
Such trumpet-blowings in it, coming 

down 
To such a stern and iron-clashing 

close, 
That when he stopt we long'd to hurl 

together, 
And should have done it; but the 

beauteous beast 
Scared by the noise upstarted at our 

feet, 
And like a silver shadow slipt away 
Thro' the dim land ; and all day long 

we rode 
Thro' the dim land against a rushing 

wind. 
That glorious roundel echoing in our 

ears, 
And chased the flashes of his golden 

horns 
Until they vanished by the fairy well 
That laughs at iron — as our warriors 

did— 
Where children cast their pins and 

nails, and cry, 
' Laugh, little well ! ' but touch it with 

a sword, • 

It buzzes fiercely round the point ; and 

there 
We lost him : such a noble song was 

that. 
But, Vivien, when you sang me that 

sweet rhyme, 
I felt as tho' you knew this cursed 

charm, 
Were proving it on me, and that I 

lay 
And felt them slowlv ebbing, name 

and fame." 

And Vivien answer'd smiling 
mournfully : 

" O mine have ebb'd away for ever- 
more, 

And all thro' following you to this 
wild wood, 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



Ill 



Because I saw you sad. to comfort 

you. 
Lo now, what hearts have men ! they 

never mount 
As high as woman in her selfless 

mood. 
And touching fame, howe'er ye scorn 

my song, 
Take one verse more — the lady 

speaks it — this : 

" ' My name, once mine, now thine, 

is closelier mine, 
For fame, could fame be mine, that 

fame were thine, 
And shame, could shame be thine, 

that shame were mine. 
So trust me not at all or all in all/ 

" Says she not well 1 and there is 

more — this rhyme 
Is like the fair pearl-necklace of the 

Queen, 
That burst in dancing, and the pearls 

were spilt ; 
Some lost, some stolen, some as relics 

kept. 
But nevermore the same two sister 

pearls 
Ran down the silken thread to kiss 

each other 
On her white neck — so is it with this 

rhyme : 
It lives dispersedly in many hands, 
And every minstrel sings it differ- 
ently ; 
Yet is there one true line, the pearl of 

pearls : 
' Man dreams of Fame while woman 

wakes to love.' 
Yea ! Love, tho' Love were of the 

grossest, carves 
A portion from the solid present, eats 
And uses, careless of the rest; but 

Fame, 
The Fame that follows death is noth- 
ing to us ; 
And what is Fame in life but half- 

disfame, 
And counterchanged with darkness? 

ye yourself 



| Know well that Envy calls you Devil's 

son, 
And since ye seem the Master of all 

Art, 
They fain would make you Master of 

all vice." 

And Merlin lock'd his hand in hers 

and said, 
" I once was looking for a magic weed, 
And found a fair young squire who 

sat alone, 
Had carved himself a knightly shield 

of wood, 
And then was painting on it fancied 

arms, 
Azure, an Eagle rising or, the Sun 
In dexter chief ; the scroll ' I follow 

fame.' 
And speaking not, but leaning over 

him, 
I took his brush and blotted out the 

bird, 
And made a Gardener putting in 

graff, 
With this for motto, ' Rather use than 

fame.' 
You should have seen him blush ; but 

afterwards 
He made a stalwart knight. Vivien, 
For you, methinks you think you love 

me well ; 
For me, I love you somewhat; rest: 

and Love 
Should have some rest and pleasure 

in himself, 
Not ever be too curious for a boon, 
Too prurient for a proof against the 

grain 
Of him ye say ye love : but Fame with 

men, 
Being but ampler means to serve 

mankind, 
Should have small rest or pleasure in 

herself, 
But work as vassal to the larger love, 
That dwarfs the petty love of one to 

one. 
Use gave me Fame at first, and Fame 

again 
Increasing gave me use. Lo, there 

my boon ! 



278 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN 



What other ? for men sought to prove 

me vile, 
Because I fain had given them greater 

wits : 
And then did Envy call me Devil's 

son : 
The sick weak beast seeking to help 

herself 
By striking at her better miss'd, and 

brought 
Her own claw back, and wounded her 

own heart. 
Sweet were the days when I was all 

unknown, 
But when my name was lifted up, the 

storm 
Brake on the mountain and I cared 

not for it. 
Eight well know I that Fame is half- 

disfame, 
Yet needs must work my work. That 

other fame, 
To one at least, who hath not children, 

vague, 
The cackle of the unborn about the 

grave, 
I cared not for it : a single misty star, 
Which is the second in a line of stars 
That seem a sword beneath a belt of 

three, 
I never gazed upon it but I dreamt 
Of some vast charm concluded in that 

star 
To make fame nothing. Wherefore, 

if I fear, 
Giving you power upon me thro' this 

charm, 
That you might play me falsely, hav- 
ing power, 
However well ye think ye love me now 
(As sons of kings loving in pupilage 
Have turn'd to tyrants when they 

came to power) 
I rather dread the loss of use than 

fame; 
If you — and not so much from 

wickedness, 
As some wild turn of anger, or a mood 
Of overstrain'd affection, it may be, 
To keep me all to your own self, — or 

else 
A sudden spurt of woman's jealousy,— 



Should try this charm on whom ye say 
ye love." 

And Vivien answer'd smiling as in 

wrath : 
" Have I not sworn ? I am not trusted. 

Good! 
Well, hide it, hide it ; I shall find it 

out; 
And being found take heed of Vivien. 
A woman and not trusted, doubtless I 
Might feel some sudden turn of anger 

born 
Of your misfaith; and your fine 

epithet 
Is accurate too, for this full love of 

mine 
Without the full heart back may 

merit well 
Your term of overstrain'd. So used 

as I, 
My daily wonder is, I love at all. 
And as to woman's jealousy, why 

not? 

to what end, except a jealous one, 
And one to make me jealous if I love, 
Was this fair charm invented by your- 
self ? 

1 well believe that all about this world 
Ye cage a buxom captive here and 

there, 

Closed in the four walls of a hollow 
tower 

From which is no escape for ever- 
more." 

Then the great Master merrily an- 
swer'd her : 

" Full many a love in loving youth 
was mine ; 

I needed then no charm to keep them 
mine 

But youth and love ; and that full 
heart of yours 

Whereof ye prattle, may now assure 
you mine ; 

So live uncharm'd. For those who 
wrought it first, 

The wrist is parted from the hand 
that waved, 

The feet unmortised from their ankle- 
bones 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



279 



Who paced it, ages back : but will ye 

hear 
The legend as in guerdon for your 

rhyme ? 

"There lived a king in the most 
Eastern East, 

Less old than I, yet older, for my 
blood 

Hath earnest in it of far springs to be. 

A tawny pirate anchor'd in his port, 

Whose bark had plunder'd twenty 
nameless isles ; 

And passing one, at the high peep of 
dawn, 

He saw two cities in a thousand boats 

All fighting for a woman on the sea. 

And pushing his black craft among 
them all, 

He lightly scatter'd theirs and brought 
her off, 

With loss of half his people arrow- 
slain ; 

A maid so smooth, so white, so won- 
derful, 

They said a light came from her when 
she moved : 

And since the pirate would not yield 
her up, 

The King impaled him for his piracy ; 

Then made her Queen : but those isle- 
nurtured eyes 

Waged such unwilling tho' successful 
war 

On all the youth, they sicken'd ; coun- 
cils thinn'd, 

And armies waned, for magnet-like 
she drew 

The rustiest iron of old fighters' 
hearts ; 

And beasts themselves would worship ; 
camels knelt 

Unbidden, and the brutes of mountain 
back 

That carry kings in castles, bow'd 
black knees 

Of homage, ringing with their serpent 
hands, 

To make her smile, her golden ankle- 
bells. 

What wonder, being jealous, that he 
sent 



His horns of proclamation out thro' 

all 
The hundred under-kingdoms that he 

sway'd 
To find a wizard who might teach the 

King 
Some charm, which being wrought 

upon the Queen 
Might keep her all his own : to such a 

one 
He promised more than ever king has 

given, 
A league of mountain full of golden 

mines, 
A province with a hundred miles of 

coast, 
A palace and a princess, all for 

him : 
But on all those who tried and fail'd, 

the King 
Pronounced a dismal sentence, mean- 
ing by it 
To keep the list low and pretenders 

back, 
Or like a king, not to be trifled with — 
Their heads should moulder on the 

city gates. 
And many tried and fail'd, because 

the charm 
Of nature in her overbore their own : 
And many a wizard brow bleach'd on 

the walls : 
And many weeks a troop of carrion 

crows 
Hung like a cloud above the gateway 

towers." 

And Vivien breaking in upon him, 

said : 
" I sit and gather honey ; yet, me- 

thinks, 
Thy tongue has tript a little : ask thy- 
self. 
The lady never made unwilling war 
With those fine eyes : she had her 

pleasure in it, 
And made her good man jealous with 

good cause. 
And lived there neither dame nor 

damsel then 
Wroth at a lover's loss ? were all as 

tame, 



280 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



I mean, as noble, as their Queen was 

fair? 
Not one to flirt a venom at her eyes, 
Or pinch a murderous dust into her 

drink, 
Or make her paler with a poison'd 

rose? 
Well, those were not our days : but 

did they find 
A wizard 1 Tell me, was he like to 

thee ? " 

She ceased, and made her lithe arm 

round his neck 
Tighten, and then drew back, and let 

her eyes 
Speak for her, glowing on him, like a 

bride's 
On her new lord, her own, the first of 

men. 

He answer'd laughing, " Nay, not 

like to me. 
At last they found — his foragers for 

charms — 
A little glassy-headed hairless man, 
Who lived alone in a great wild on 

grass ; 
Read but one book, and ever reading" 

grew 
So grated down and filed away with 

thought, 
So lean his eyes were monstrous ; 

while the skin 
Clung but to crate and basket, ribs 

and spine. 
And since he kept his mind on one 

sole aim, 
Nor ever touch'd fierce wine, nor tasted 

flesh, 
Nor own'd a sensual wish, to him the 

wall 
That sunders ghosts and shadow-cast- 
ing men 
Became a crystal, and he saw them 

thro' it, 
And heard their voices talk behind 

the wall, 
And learnt their elemental secrets, 

powers 
And forces ; often o'er the sun's bright 

eye 



Drew the vast eyelid of an inky cloud, 
And lash'd it at the base with slanting 

storm ; 
Or in the noon of mist and driving 

rain, 
When the lake whiten'd and the pine- 
wood roar'd, 
And the cairn'd mountain was a 

shadow, sunn'd 
The world to peace again: here was 

the man. 
And so by force they dragg'd him to 

the King. 
And then he taught the King to 

charm the Queen 
In such-wise, that no man could see 

her more, 
Nor saw she save the King, who 

wrought the charm, 
Coming and going, and she lay as 

dead, 
And lost all use of life : but when the 

King 
Made proffer of the league of golden 

mines, 
The province with a hundred miles of 

coast, 
The palace and the princess, that old 

man 
Went back to his old wild, and lived 

on grass, 
And vanish'd, and his book came 

down to me." 

And Vivien answer'd smiling sau- 
cily : 
"Ye have the book: the charm is 

written in it : 
Good : take my counsel : let me know 

it at once : 
Eor keep it like a puzzle chest in 

chest, 
With each chest lock'd and padlock'd 

thirty-fold, 
And whelm all this beneath as vast a 

mound 
As after furious battle turfs the 

slain 
On some wild down above the windy 

deep, 
I yet should strike upon a sudden 

means 






MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



281 



To dig, pick, open, find and read the 

charm : 
Then, if I tried it, who should blame 

me then ? " 

And smiling as a master smiles at 
one 

That is not of his school, nor any 
school 

But that where blind and naked 
Ignorance 

Delivers brawling judgments, una- 
shamed, 

On all things all day long, he answer'd 
her: 

"Thou read the book, my pretty 

Vivien ! 
O ay, it is but twenty pages long, 
But every page having an ample 

marge, 
And every marge enclosing in the 

midst 
A square of text that looks a little 

blot, 
The text no larger than the limbs of 

fleas ; 
And every square of text an awful 

charm, 
Writ in a language that has long gone 

by. 
So long, that mountains have arisen 

since 
With cities on their flanks — thou read 

the book ! 
And every margin scribbled, crost, 

and cramm'd 
With comment, densest condensation, 

hard 
To mind and eye ; but the long sleep- 
less nights 
Of my long life have made it easy to 

me. 
And none can read the text, not even 

I; 
And none can read the comment but 

myself ; 
And in the comment did I find the 

charm. 
O, the results are simple; a mere 

child 
Might use it to the harm of any one, 



And never could undo it : ask no 

more : 
For tho' you should not prove it upon 

me, 
But keep that oath ye sware, ye 

might, perchance, 
Assay it on some one of the Table 

Round, 
And all because ye dream they babble 

of you." 

And Vivien, frowning in true anger, 

said : 
" What dare the full-fed liars say of 

me? 
They ride abroad redressing human 

wrongs ! 
They sit with knife in meat and wine 

in horn ! 
They bound to holy vows of chastity ! 
Were I not woman, I could tell a tale. 
But you are man, you well can under- 
stand 
The shame that cannot be explained 

for shame. 
Not one of all the drove should touch 

me : swine ! " 

Then answer'd Merlin careless of 

her words : 
" You breathe but accusation vast and 

vague, 
Spleen-born, I think, and proofless. 

If ye know, 
Set up the charge ye know, to stand 

or fall!" 



And Vivien answer'd frowning 

wrathf ully : 
" O ay, what say ye to Sir Valence, 

him 
Whose kinsman left him watcher o'er 

his wife 
And two fair babes, and went to dis- 
tant lands ; 
Was one year gone, and on returning 

found 
Not two but three ? there lay the 

reckling, one 
But one hour old ! What said the 

happy sire 1 



282 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



A seven-months' babe had been a 

truer gift. 
Those twelve sweet moons confused 

his fatherhood." 

Then answer'd Merlin, "Nay, I 

know the tale. 
Sir Valence wedded with an outland 

dame : 
Some cause had kept him sunder'd 

from his wife : 
One child they had : it lived with her : 

she died: 
His kinsman travelling on his own 

affair 
Was charged by Valence to bring 

home the child. 
He brought, not found it therefore : 

take the truth." 

" O ay," said Vivien, " overtrue a 

tale. 
What say ye then to sweet Sir Sag- 

ramore, 
That ardent man 1 ' to pluck the 

flower in season,' 
So says the song, ' I trow it is no 

treason.' 

Master, shall we call him overquick 
To crop his own sweet rose before the 

hour 1 " 

And Merlin answer'd, "Overquick 

art thou 
To catch a loathly plume fall'n from 

the wing 
Of that foul bird of rapine whose 

whole prey 
Is man's good name : he never wrong'd 

his bride. 

1 know the tale. An angry gust of 

wind 
Puff'd out his torch among the myriad- 

room'd 
And many-corridor'd complexities 
Of Arthur's palace : then he found a 

door, 
And darkling felt the sculptured 

ornament 
That wreathen round it made it seem 

his own : 



And wearied out made for the couch 

and slept, 
A stainless man beside a stainless 

maid ; 
And either slept, nor knew of other 

there ; 
Till the high dawn piercing the royal 

rose 
In Arthur's casement glimmer'd 

chastely down, 
Blushing upon them blushing, and a1 

once 
He rose without a word and parted 

from her : 
But when the thing was blazed about 

the court, 
The brute world howling forced them 

into bonds, 
And as it chanced they are happy, 

being pure." 

" ay," said Vivien, " that were 

likely too. 
What say ye then to fair Sir Percivale 
And of the horrid foulness that he 

wrought, 
The saintly youth, the spotless lamb 

of Christ, 
Or some black wether of St. Satan's 

fold. 
What, in the precincts of the chapel- 
yard, 
Among the knightly brasses of the 

graves, 
And by the cold Hie Jacets of the 

dead!" 

And Merlin answer'd careless of her 
charge, 

" A sober man is Percivale and pure ; 

But once in life was fluster'd with new 
wine, 

Then paced for coolness in the chapel- 
yard ; 

Where one of Satan's shepherdesses 
caught 

And meant to stamp him with her 
master's mark ; 

And that he sinn'd is not believable ; 

For, look upon his face ! — but if he 
sinn'd, 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



283 



The sin that practice burns into the 

blood, 
And not the one dark hour which 

brings remorse, 
Will brand us, after, of whose fold we 

be: 
Or else were he, the holy king, whose 

hymns 
Are chanted in the minster, worse 

than all. 
But is your spleen f roth'd out, or have 

ye more % " 

And Vivien answer'd frowning yet 

in wrath : 
" O ay ; what say ye to Sir Lancelot, 

friend 
Traitor or true ? that commerce with 

the Queen, 
I ask you, is it clamor'd by the child, 
Or whisper'd in the corner 1 do ye 

know it? " 

To which he answer'd sadly, " Yea, 
I know it. 

Sir Lancelot went ambassador, at 
first, 

To fetch her, and she watch'd him 
from her walls. 

A rumor runs, she took him for the 
King, 

So fixt her fancy on him : let them be. 

But have ye no one word of loyal 
praise 

For Arthur, blameless King and stain- 
less man ? " 

She answer'd with a low and chuck- 
ling laugh : 
" Man ! is he man at all, who knows 

and winks ? 
Sees what his fair bride is and does, 

and winks ? 
By which the good King means to 

blind himself, 
And blinds himself and all the Table 

Round 
To all the foulness that they work. 

Myself 
Could call him (were it not few: 

womanhood) 



The pretty, popular name such man- 
hood earns, 

Could call him the main cause of all 
their crime ; 

Yea, were he not crown'd King, 
coward, and fool." 

Then Merlin to his own heart, 
loathing, said : 

" O true and tender ! O my liege and 
King! 

selfless man and stainless gentle- 
man, 

Who wouldst against thine own eye- 
witness fain 

Have all men true and leal, all women 
pure ; 

How, in the mouths of base inter- 
preters, 

From over-fineness not intelligible 

To things with every sense as false 
and foul 

As the poach'd filth that floods the 
middle street, 

Is thy white blamelessness accounted 
blame ! " 

But Vivien, deeming Merlin over- 
borne 

By instance, recommenced, and let 
her tongue 

Rage like a fire among the noblest 
names, 

Polluting, and imputing her whole 
self, 

Defaming and defacing, till she left 

Not even Lancelot brave, nor Galahad 
clean. 

Her words had issue other than she 
v will'd. 

He dragg'd his eyebrow bushes down, 
and made 

A snowy penthouse for his hollow 
eyes, 

And mutter'd in himself, " Tell her the 
charm ! 

So, if she had it, would she rail on me 

To snare the next, and if she have it 
not 

So will she rail. What did the wan- 
ton say 1 



284 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



1 Not mount as high ; ; we scarce can 

sink as low : 
For men at most differ as Heaven and 

earth, 
But women, worst and best, as Heaven 

and Hell. 
I know the Table Round, my friends 

of old; 
All brave, and many generous, and 

some chaste. 
She cloaks the scar of some repulse 

with lies ; 
I well believe she tempted them and 

fail'd, 
Being so bitter : for fine plots may 

fail, 
Tho' harlots paint their talk as well 

as face 
With colors of the heart that are not 

theirs. 
I will not let her know : nine tithes of 

times 
Face-flatterer and backbiter are the 

same. 
And they, sweet soul, that most im- 
pute a crime 
Are pronest to it, and impute them- 
selves, 
Wanting the mental range ; or low 

desire 
Not to feel lowest makes them level 

all; 
Yea, they would pare the mountain 

to the plain, 
To leave an equal baseness ; and in 

this 
Are harlots like the crowd, that if 

they find 
Some stain or blemish in a name of 

note, 
Not grieving that their greatest are so 

small, 
Inflate themselves with some insane 

delight, 
And judge all nature from her feet of 

clay, 
Without the will to lift their eyes, and 

see 
Her godlike head crown'd with spir- 
itual fire, 
And touching other worlds. I am 

weary of her." 



He spoke in words part heard, in 

whispers part, 
Half-suffocated in the hoary fell 
And many-winter'd fleece of throat 

and chin. 
But Vivien, gathering somewhat of 

his mood, 
And hearing " harlot " mutter'd twice 

or thrice, 
Leapt from her session on his lap, and 

stood 
Stiff as a viper frozen ; loathsome 

sight, 
How from the rosy lips of life and 

love, 
Flash'd the bare-grinning skeleton of 

death ! 
White was her cheek ; sharp breaths 

of anger puff 'd 
Her fairy nostril out ; her hand half- 

clench'd 
Went faltering sideways downward to 

her belt, 
And feeling; had she found a dagger 

there 
(For in a wink the false love turns 

to hate) 
She would have stabb'd him ; but she 

found it not : 
His eye was calm, and suddenly she 

took 
To bitter weeping like a beaten child, 
A long, long weeping, not consolable. 
Then her false voice made way, broken 

with sobs : 

" O crueller than was ever told in 

tale, 
Or sung in song ! vainly lavish'd 

love ! 
O cruel, there was nothing wild or 

strange, 
Or seeming shameful — for what 

shame in love, 
So love be true, and not as yours is — 

nothing 
Poor Vivien had not done to win his 

trust 
Who eall'd her what he call'd her — 

all her crime, 
All — all — the wish to prove him 

wholly hers." 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



28S 



She mused a little, and then clapt 
her hands 

Together with a wailing shriek, and 
said: 

" Stabb'd through the heart's affec- 
tions to the heart! 

Seethed like the kid in its own mother's 
milk ! 

Kill'd with a word worse than a life 
of blows ! 

I thought that he was gentle, being 
great : 

God, that I had loved a smaller man ! 

1 should have found in him a greater 

heart. 
O, I, that flattering my true passion, 

saw 
The knights, the court, the King, dark 

in your light, 
Who loved to make men darker than 

they are, 
Because of that high pleasure which 

I had 
To seat you sole upon my pedestal 
Of worship — I am answer'd, and 

henceforth 
The course of life that seem'd so 

flowery to me 
With you for guide and master, only 

you, 
Becomes the sea-cliff pathway broken 

short, 
And ending in a ruin — nothing left, 
But into some low cave to crawl, and 

there, 
If the wolf spare me, weep my life 

away, 
Kill'd with inutterable unkindliness." 

She paused, she turn'd away, she 

hung her head, 
The snake of gold slid from her hair, 

the braid 
Slipt and uncoil'd itself, she wept 

afresh, 
And the dark wood grew darker 

toward the storm 
In silence, while his anger slowly died 
Within him, till he let his wisdom go 
For ease of heart, and half believed 

her true : 
Call'd her to shelter in the hollow oak, 



" Come from the storm," and having 

no reply, 
Gazed at the heaving shoulder, and 

the face 
Hand-hidden, as for utmost grief or 

shame ; 
Then thrice essay'd, by tenderest- 

touching terms, 
To sleek her ruffled peace of mind, in 

vain. 
At last she let herself be conquer' d by 

him, 
And as the cageling newly flown re- 
turns, 
The seeming-injured, simple-hearted 

thing 
Came to her old perch back, and set- 
tled there. 
There while she sat, half-falling from 

his knees, 
Half-nestled at his heart, and since he 

saw 
The slow tear creep from her closed 

eye-lid yet, 
About her, more in kindness than in 

love, 
The gentle wizard cast a shielding 

arm. 
But she dislink'd herself at once and 

rose, 
Her arms upon her breast across, and 

stood, 
A virtuous gentlewoman deeply 

wrong'd, 
Upright and flush'd before him : then 

she said : 

"There must be now no passages of 

love 
Betwixt us twain henceforward ever- 
more ; 
Since, if I be what I am grossly call'd, 
What should be granted which your 

own gross heart 
Would reckon worth the taking 1 I 

will go. 
In truth, but one thing no-,v — better 

have died 
Thrice than have ask'd it once — could 

make me stay — 
That proof of trust — so often ask'd 

in vain ! 



286 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



How justly, after that vile term of 

yours, 
I find with grief ! I might believe you 

then, 
Who knows 1 once more. Lo ! what 

was once to me 
Mere matter of the fancy, now hath 

grown 
The vast necessity of heart and life. 
Farewell ; think gently of me, for I 

fear 
My fate or folly, passing gayer youth 
For one so old, must be to love thee 

still. 
But ere I leave thee let me swear once 

more 
That if I schemed against thy peace 

in this, 
May yon just heaven, that darkens 

o'er me, send 
One flash, that, missing all things else, 

may make 
My scheming brain a cinder, if I 

lie." 

Scarce had she ceased, when out of 

heaven a bolt 
(For now the storm was close above 

them) struck, 
Furrowing a giant oak, and javelining 
With darted spikes and splinters of 

the wood 
The dark earth round. He raised his 

eyes and saw 
The tree that shone white-lisved thro' 

the gloom. 
But Vivien, fearing heaven had heard 

her oath, 
And dazzled by the livid-flickering 

fork, 
And deafen'd with the stammering 

cracks and claps 
That follow'd, flying back and crying 

out, 
" Merlin, tho' you do not love me, 

save, 
Yet save me ! " clung to him and 

hugg'd him close ; 
And call'd him dear protector in her 

fright, 
Nor yet forgot her practice in her 

fright, 



But wrought upon his mood and 

hugg'd him close. 
The pale blood of the wizard at her 

touch 
Took gayer colors, like an opal 

warm'd. 
She blamed herself for telling hearsay 

tales : 
She shook from fear, and for her f aul 

she wept 
Of petulancy ; she call'd him lord and 

liege, 
Her seer, her bard, her silver star of 

eve, 
Her God, her Merlin, the one passion- 
ate love 
Of her whole life ; and ever overhead 
Bellow'd the tempest, and the rotten 

branch 
Snapt in the rushing of the river-rain 
Above them ; and in change of glare 

and gloom 
Her eyes and neck glittering went and 

came ; 
Till now the storm, its burst of passion 

spent, 
Moaning and calling out of other 

lands, 
Had left the ravaged woodland yet 

once more 
To peace ; and what should not have 

been had been, 
For Merlin, overtalk'd and overworn, 
Had yielded, told her all the charm, 

and slept. 

Then, in one moment, she put forth 

the charm 
Of woven paces and of waving hands, 
And in the hollow oak he lay as dead, 
And lost to life and use and name and 

fame. 

Then crying " I have made his glory 
mine," 

And shrieking out " fool ! " the har- 
lot leapt 

Adown the forest, and the thicket 
closed 

Behind her, and the forest echo'd 
" fool." 



LANCELOT AND ELALNE. 



287 



LANCELOT AND ELaistr. 

Elaine the fair, Elaine the loveable, 

Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat, 

High in her chamber up a tower to 
the east 

Guarded the sacred shield of Lance- 
lot; 

Which first she placed where morn- 
ing's earliest ray 

Might strike it, and awake her with 
the gleam ; 

Then fearing rust or soilure fashion'd 
for it 

A case of silk, and braided thereupon 

All the devices blazon'd on the shield 

In their own tinct, and added, of her 
wit, 

A border fantasy of branch and flower, 

And yellow-throated nestling in the 
nest. 

Nor rested thus content, but day by 
day, 

Leaving her household and good 
father, climb'd 

That eastern tower, and entering 
barr'd her door, 

Stript off the case, and read the naked 
shield, 

Now guess'd a hidden meaning in his 
arms, 

Now made a pretty history to herself 

Of every dint a sword had beaten in 

tit, 
And every scratch a lance had made 
upon it, 
Conjecturing when and where : this 
cut is fresh; 
That ten years back; this dealt him 

at Caerlyle ; 
That at Caerleon ; this at Camelot : 
And ah God's mercy, what a stroke 

was there ! 
lAnd here a thrust that might have 

kill'd, but God 
Broke the strong lance, and roll'd his 

enemy down, r 

And saved him : so she lived in fan- 
tasy. 

How came the lily maid by that 
good shield 



Of Lancelot, she that knew not ev'n 

his name ? 
11 c left it with her, when he rode to 

tin, 

For the great diamond in the diamond 

jousts, 
Which Arthur had ordain'd, and \>j 

that name 
Had named them, since a diamond 

was the prize. 

For Arthur, long before they 

crown'd him King, 
Roving the trackless realms of Lyon- 

nesse, 
Had found a glen, gray boulder and 

black tarn. 
A horror lived about the tarn, and 

clave 
Like its own mists to all the mountain 

side : 
For here two brothers, one a king, 

had met 
And fought together ; but their names 

were lost; 
And each had slain his brother at a 

blow ; 
And down they fell and made the glen 

abhorr'd : 
And there they lay till all their bones 

were bleach'd, 
And lichen'd into color with the crags : 
And he, that once was king, had on a 

crown 
Of diamonds, one in front, and four 

aside. 
And Arthur came, and laboring up the 

pass, 
All in a misty moonshine, unawares 
Had trodden that crown'd skeleton, 

and the skull 
Brake from the nape, and from the 

skull the crown 
Roll'd into light, and turning on its 

rims 
Fled like a glittering rivulet to the 

tarn: 
And down the shingly scaur he 

plunged, and caught, 
And set it on his head, and in his heart 
Heard murmurs, "Lo, thou likewise 

shalt be King." 






288 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 



Thereafter, when a King, he had the 

gems 
Pluck'd from the crown, and »kow*tf 

them to his knia- 2lfcS » 
Saying " T^<=^ jewels, whereupon I 

chanced 
Divinely, are the kingdom's, not the 

King's — 
For public use : henceforward let 

there be, 
Once every year, a joust for one of 

these : 
For so by nine years' proof we needs 

must learn 
Which is our mightiest, and ourselves 

shall grow 
In use of arms and manhood, till we 

drive 
The heathen, who, some say, shall rule 

the land 
Hereafter, which God hinder." Thus 

he spoke : 
And eight years past, eight jousts had 

been, and still 
Had Lancelot won the diamond of the 

year, 
With purpose to present them to the 

Queen, 
When all were won ; but meaning all 

at once 
To snare her royal fancy with a boon 
Worth half her realm, had never 

spoken word. 

Now for the central diamond and 

the last 
And largest, Arthur, holding then his 

court 
Hard on the river nigh the place which 

now 
Is this world's hugest, let proclaim a 

joust 
At Camelot. and when the time drew 

nigh 
Spake (for she had been sick) to 

Guinevere, 
" Are you so sick, my Queen, you can- 
not move 
To these fair jousts ? " "Yea, lord," 

she said, "ye know it." 
"Then will ye miss," he answer'd, 

" the great deeds 



Of Larx^io-t, and his prowess in the 

lists, 
A sight ye love to look on." And the 

Queen 
Lifted her eyes, and they dwelt lan- 
guidly 
On Lancelot, where he stood beside 

the King. 
He thinking that he read her meaning 

there, 
" Stay with me, I am sick; my love is 

more 
Than many diamonds," yielded; and 

a heart 
Love-loyal to the least wish of the 

Queen 
(However much he yearn'd to make 

complete 
The tale of diamonds for his destined 

boon) 
Urged him to speak against the truth, 

and say, 
" Sir King, mine ancient wound is 

hardly whole, 
And lets me from the saddle ; " and 

the King 
Glanced first at him, then her, and 

went his way. 
No sooner gone than suddenly she 

began : 



" To blame, my lord Sir Lancelot, 

much to blame ! 
Why go ye not to these fair jousts 1 

the knights 
Are half of them our enemies, and the 

crowd 
Will murmur, ' Lo the shameless 

ones, who take 
Their pastime now the trustful King 

is gone ! ' " 
Then Lancelot vext at having lied in 

vain: 
"Are ye so wise? ye were not once 

so wise, 
My Queen, that summer, when y< 

loved me first. 
Then of the crowd ye took no moi 

account 
Than of the myriad cricket of tl 

mead, 



I 



LANCELOT AND ELALNE 



2S9 



When its own voice clings to each 

blade of grass, 
And every voice is nothing. As to 

knights, 
Them surely can I silence with all 

ease. 
But now my loyal worship is allow 'd 
Of all men: many a bard, without 

offence, 
Has link'd our names together in his 

lay, 
Lancelot, the flower of bravery, 

Guinevere, 
The pearl of beauty : and our knights 

at feast 
Have pledged us in this union, while 

the King 
Would listen smiling. How then 1 is 

there more ? 
Has Arthur spoken aught ? or would 

yourself, 
Now weary of my service and devoir, 
Henceforth be truer to your faultless 

lord ? " 

She broke into a little scornful 
laugh : 

" Arthur, my lord, Arthur, the fault- 
less King, 

That passionate perfection, my good 
lord — 

But who can gaze upon the Sun in 
heaven "? 

He never spake word of reproach to 
me, 

He never had a glimpse of mine un- 
truth, 

He cares not for me : only here to-day 

There gleam'd a vague suspicion in his 
eyes: 

Some meddling rogue has tamper'd 
with him — else 

Rapt in this fancy of his Table Round, 

And swearing men to vows impossible, 

To make them like himself: but, 
friend, to me 

He is all fault who hath no fault at 
all: 

For who loves me must have a touch 
of earth ; 

The low sun makes the color: I am 
yours, 



Not Arthur's, as ye know, save by 

the bond. 
And therefore hear my words : go to 

the jousts : 
The tiny-trumpeting gnat can break 

our dream 
When sweetest; and the vermin 

voices here 
May buzz so loud — we scorn them, 

but they sting." 

Then answer'd Lancelot, the chief 
of knights : 

" And with what face, after my pre- 
text made, 

Shall I appear, O Queen, at Camelot, 
I 

Before a King who honors his own 
work, 

As if it were his God's 1 " 

" Yea/' said the Queen, 
"A moral child without the craft to 

rule, 
Else had he not lost me : but listen to 

me, 
If I must find you wit : we hear it 

said 
That men go down before your spear 

at a touch, 
But knowing you are Lancelot ; your 

great name, 
This conquers: hide it therefore; go 

unknown : 
Win ! by this kiss you will : and our 

true King 
Will then allow your pretext, my 

knight, 
As all for glory ; for to speak him 

true, 
Ye know right well, how meek soe'er 

he seem, 
No keener hunter after glory breathes. 
He loves it in his knights more than 

himself : 
They prove to him his work : win and 

return." 

Then got Sir Lancelot suddenly to 
horse, 
Wroth at himself. Not willing to be 
known, 



290 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 



He left the barren-beaten thorough- 
fare, 

Chose the green path that show'd the 
rarer foot, 

And there among the solitary downs, 

Full often lost in fancy, lost his 
way; 

Till as he traced a faintly-shadow'd 
track, 

That all in loops and links among the 
dales 

Ran to the Castle of Astolat, he saw 

Fired from the west, far on a hill, the 
towers. 

Thither he made, and blew the gate- 
way horn. 

Then came an old, dumb, myriad- 
wrinkled man, 

Who let him into lodging and dis- 
arm'd. 

And Lancelot marvell'd at the word- 
less man; 

And issuing found the lord of Astolat 

With two strong sons, Sir Torre and 
Sir Lavaine, 

Moving to meet him in the castle 
court ; 

And close behind them stept the lily 
maid 

Elaine, his daughter : mother of the 
house 

There was not : some light jest 
among them rose 

With laughter dying down as the 
great knight 

Approach'd them : then the Lord of 
Astolat : 

" Whence comest thou, my guest, and 
by what name 

Livest between the lips 1 for by thy 
state 

And presence I might guess thee 
chief of those, 

After the King, who eat in Arthur's 
halls. 

Him have I seen : the rest, his Table 
Round, 

Known as they are, to me they are 
unknown." 

Then answer'd Lancelot, the chief 
of knights : 



" Known am I, and of Arthur's hall, 

and known, 
What I by mere mischance have 

brought, my shield. 
But since I go to joust as one un- 
known 
At Camelot for the diamond, ask me 

not, 
Hereafter ye shall know me — and 

the shield — 
I pray you lend me one, if such you 

have, 
Blank, or at least with some device 

not mine." 

Then said the Lord of Astolat, 

" Here is Torre's : 
Hurt in his first tilt was my son, Sir 

Torre. 
And so, God wot, his shield is blank 

enough. 
His ye can have." Then added plain 

Sir Torre, 
" Yea, since I cannot use it, ye may 

have it." 
Here laugh'd the father saying, "Fie, 

Sir Churl, 
Is that an answer for a noble knight 1 
Allow him ! but Lavaine, my younger 

here, 
He is so full of lustihood, he will ride, 
Joust for it, and win, and bring it in 

an hour, 
And set it in this damsel's golden 

hair, 
To make her thrice as wilful as be- 
fore." 

"Nay, father, nay good father, 

shame me not 
Before this noble knight," said young 

Lavaine, 
" For nothing. Surely I but play'd 

on Torre : 
He seem'd so sullen, vext he could 

not go : 
A jest, no more ! for, knight, the 

maiden dreamt , 
That some one put this diamond in 

her hand, 
And that it was too slippery to be 

held, 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 



291 



And slipt and fell into some pool or 

stream, 
The castle-well, belike; and then I 

said 
That if I went and if I fought and 

won it 
(But all was jest and joke among our- 
selves) 
Then must she keep it safelier. All 

was jest. 
But, father, give me leave, an if he 

will, 
To ride to Camelot with this noble 

knight : 
Win shall I not, but do my best to 

win : 
Young as 1 am, yet would I do my 

best." 

" So ye will grace me," answer'd 
Lancelot, 

Smiling a moment," with your fellow- 
ship 

O'er these waste downs whereon I 
lost myself, 

Then were 1 glad of you as guide and 
friend : 

And you shall win this diamond, — 
as I hear 

It is a fair large diamond, — if ye 
may, 

And yield it to this maiden, if ye 
will." 

" A fair large diamond," added plain 
Sir Torre, 

"Such be for queens, and not for sim- 
ple maids." 

Then she, who held her eyes upon the 
ground, 

Elaine, and heard her name so tost 
about, 

Flush'd slightly at the slight dispar- 
agement 

Before the stranger knight, who, look- 
ing at her, 

Full courtly, yet not falsely, thus 
return'd : 

" If what is fair be but for what is 
fair, 

And only queens are to be counted so, 

Rash were my judgment then, who 
deem this maid 



Might wear as fair a jewel as is on 

earth, 
Not violating the bond of like to like." 

He spoke and ceased : the lily maid 
Elaine, 

Won by the mellow voice before she 
looked, 

Lifted her eyes, and read his linea- 
ments. 

The great and guilty love he bare the 
Queen, 

In battle with the love he bare his 
lord, 

Had marr'd his face, and mark'd it 
ere his time. 

Another sinning on such heights with 
one, 

The flower of all the west and all the 
world, 

Had been the sleeker for it: but in 
him 

His mood was often like a fiend, and 
rose 

And drove him into wastes and soli- 
tudes 

For agony, who was yet a living soul. 

Marr'd as he was, he seem'd the good- 
liest man 

That ever among ladies ate in hall, 

And noblest, when she lifted up her 
eyes. 

However marr'd, of more than twice 
her years, 

Seam'd with an ancient swordcut on 
the cheek, 

And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up 
her eyes 

And loved him, with that love which 
was her doom. 

Then the great knight, the darling 

of the court, 
Loved of the loveliest, into that rude 

hall 
Stept with all grace, and not with half 

disdain 
Hid under grace, as in a smaller time, 
But kindly man moving among his 

kind: 
Whom they with meats and vintage 

of their best 



292 



LANCELOT AND ELALNE. 



And talk and minstrel melody enter- 

tain'd. 
And much they ask'd of court and 

Table Round, 
And ever well and readily answer'd 

he: 
But Lancelot, when they glanced at 

Guinevere, 
Suddenly speaking of the wordless 

man, 
Heard from the Baron that, ten years 

before, 
The heathen caught and reft him of 

his tongue. 
" He learnt and warn'd me of their 

fierce design 
Against my house, and him they 

caught and maim'd ; 
But I, my sons, and little daughter 

fled 
From bonds or death, and dwelt among 

the woods 
By the great river in a boatman's 

hut. 
Dull days were those, till our good 

Arthur broke 
The Pagan yet once more on Badon 

hill." 

"O there, great lord, doubtless," 

Lavaine said, rapt 
By all the sweet and sudden passion 

of youth 
Toward greatness in its elder, " you 

have fought. 
O tell us — for we live apart — you 

know 
Of Arthur's glorious wars." And 

Lancelot spoke 
And answer'd him at full, as having 

been 
With Arthur in the fight which all 

day long 
Rang by the white mouth of the vio- 
lent Glem ; 
And in the four loud battles by the 

shore 
Of Duglas ; that on Bassa ; then the 

war 
That thunder'd in and out the gloomy 

skirts 
Of Celidon the forest ; and again 



By castle Gurnion, where the glorious 

King 
Had on his cuirass worn our Lady's 

Head, 
Carved of one emerald center'd in a 

sun 
Of silver rays, that lighten'd as he 

breathed ; 
And at Caerleon had he helped his 

lord, 
When the strong neighings of the wild 

white Horse 
Set every gilded parapet shuddering ; 
And up in Agned-Cathregonion too, 
And down the waste sand-shores of 

Trath Treroit, 
Where many a heathen fell ; " and on 

the mount 
Of Badon I myself beheld the King 
Charge at the head of all his Table 

Round, 
And all his. legions crying Christ and 

him, 
And break them ; and I saw him, after, 

stand 
High on a heap of slain, from spur to 

plume 
Red as the rising sun with heathen 

blood, 
And seeing me, with a great voice he 

cried, 
' They are broken, they are broken ! ' 

for the King, 
However mild he seems at home, nor 

cares 
For triumph in our mimic wars, the 

jousts — 
For if his own knight cast him down, 

he laughs 
Saying, his knights are better men 

than he — 
Yet in this heathen war the fire of 

God 
Fills him : I never saw his like : there 

lives 
No greater leader." 

While he utter'd this, 
Low to her own heart said the lily 

maid, 
" Save your great self, fair lord;" 

and when he fell 



LANCELOT AND ELALNE. 



293 



From talk of war to traits of pleas- 
antry — 
Being mirthful he, but in a stately 

kind — 
She still took note that when the 

living smile 
Died from his lips, across him came 

a cloud 
Of melancholy severe, from which 

again, 
Whenever in her hovering to and 

fro 
The lily maid had striven to make him 

cheer, 
There brake a sudden-beaming ten- 
derness 
Of manners and of nature : and she 

thought 
That all was nature, all, perchance, 

for her. 
And all night long his face before her 

lived, 
As when a painter, poring on a face, 
Divinely thro' all hindrance finds the 

man 
Behind it, and so paints him that his 

face, 
The shape and color of a mind and 

life, 
Lives for his children, ever at its best 
And fullest; so the face before her 

lived, 
Dark-splendid, speaking in the silence, 

full 
Of noble things, and held her from 

her sleep. 
Till rathe she rose, half-cheated in the 

thought 
She needs must bid farewell to sweet 

Lavaine. 
First as in fear, step after step, she 

stole 
Down the long tower-stairs, hesitat- 
ing : 
Anon, she heard Sir Lancelot cry in 

the court, 
" This shield, my friend, where is it ? " 

and Lavaine 
Past inward, as she came from out 

the tower. 
There to his proud horse Lancelot 

turn'd, and smooth'd 



The glossy shoulder, humming to 

himself. 
Half-envious of the flattering hand, 

she drew 
Nearer and stood. He look'd, and 

more amazed 
Than if seven men had set upon him, 

saw 
The maiden standing in the dewy 

light. 
He had not dream'd she was so beau- 
tiful. 
Then came on him a sort of sacred 

fear, 
For silent, tho' he greeted her, she 

stood 
Rapt on his face as if it were a God's. 
Suddenly flash'd on her a wild desire, 
That he should wear her favor at the 

tilt, 
She braved a riotous heart in asking 

for it. 
" Fair lord, whose name I know not — 

noble it is, 
I well believe, the noblest — will you 

wear 
My favor at this tourney ? " " Nay," 

said he, 
" Fair lady, since I never yet have 

worn 
Favor of any lady in the lists. 
Such is my wont, as those, who know 

me, know." 
" Yea, so," she answer'd ; " then in 

wearing mine 
Needs must be lesser likelihood, noble 

lord, 
That those who know should know 

you." And he turn'd 
Her counsel up and down within his 

mind, 
And found it true, and answer'd 

" True, my child. 
Well, I will wear it : fetch it out to 

me : 
What is it 1 " and she told him " A red 

sleeve 
Broider'd with pearls," and brought 

it : then he bound 
Her token on his helmet, with a smile 
Saying, " I never yet have done so 

much 



294 



LANCELOT AND ELALNE. 



For any maiden living," and the blood 
Sprang to her face and fill'd her with 

delight ; 
But left her all the paler, when 

Lavaine 
Returning brought the yet-unblazon'd 

shield, 
His brother's ; which he gave to 

Lancelot, 
Who parted with his own to fair 

Elaine : 
" Do me this grace, my child, to have 

my shield 
In keeping till I come." " A grace to 

me," 
She answer'd, " twice to-day. I am 

your squire ! " 
Whereat Lavaine said, laughing, 

" Lily maid, 
For fear our people call you lily maid 
In earnest, let me bring your color 

back ; 
Once, twice, and thrice : now get you 

hence to bed : " 
So kiss'd her, and Sir Lancelot his 

own hand, 
And thus they moved away : she 

stay'cl a minute, 
Then made a sudden step to the gate, 

and there — 
Her bright hair blown about the 

serious face 
Yet rosy-kindled with her brother's 

kiss — 
Paused by the gateway, standing near 

the shield 
In silence, while she watch'd their 

arms far-off 
Sparkle, until they dipt below the 

downs. 
Then to her tower she climb'd, and 

took the shield, 
There kept it, and so lived in fantasy. 

Meanwhile the new companions 

past away 
Far o'er the long backs of the bushless 

downs, 
To where Sir Lancelot knew there 

lived a knight 
Not far from Camelot, now for forty 

years 



A hermit, who had pray'd, labor'd and 
pray'd, 

And ever laboring had scoop'd him- 
self 

In the white rock a chapel and a hall 

On massive columns, like a shorecliff 
cave, 

And cells and chambers : all were fair 
and dry ; 

The green light from the meadows 
underneath 

Struck up and lived along the milky 
roofs ; 

And in the meadows tremulous aspen- 
trees 

And poplars made a noise of falling 
showers. 

And thither wending there that night 
they bode. 

But when the next day broke from 

underground, 
And shot red fire and shadows thro' 

the cave, 
They rose, heard mass, broke fast, and 

rode away : 
Then Lancelot saying, " Hear, but 

hold my name 
Hidden, you ride with Lancelot of the 

Lake." 
Abash'd Lavaine, whose instant rev- 
erence, 
Dearer to true young hearts than their 

own praise, 
But left him leave to stammer, " Is it 

indeed ? " 
And after muttering "The great 

Lancelot," 
At last he got his breath and answer'd, 

" One, 
One have I seen — that other, our 

liege lord, 
The dread Pendragon, Britain's King 

of kings, 
Of whom the people talk mysteriously, 
He will be there — then were I stricken 

blind 
That minute, I might say that I had 

seen." 

So spake Lavaine, and when they 
reach'd the lists 



LANCELOT AND ELALNE. 



295 



By Camelot in the meadow, let his 

eyes 
Run thro' the peopled gallery which 

half round 
Lay like a rainbow fall'n upon the 

grass, 
Until they found the clear-faced King, 

who sat 
Robed in red samite, easily to be 

known, 
Since to his crown the golden dragon 

clung, 
And down his robe the dragon writhed 

in gold, 
And from the caryen-work behind 

him crept 
Two dragons gilded, sloping down to 

make 
Arms for his chair, while all the rest 

of them 
Thro' knots and loops and folds innu- 
merable 
Fled ever thro' the woodwork, till they 

found 
The new design wherein they lost 

themselves, 
Yet with all ease, so tender was the 

work : 
And, in the costly canopy o'er him 

set, 
Blazed the last diamond of the name- 
less king. 

Then Lancelot answer'd young 

Lavaine and said, 
" Me you call great : mine is the 

firmer seat, 
The truer lance : but there is many a 

youth 
Now crescent, who will come to all I 

am 
And overcome it; and in me there 

dwells 
No greatness, save it be some far-off 

touch 
Of greatness to know well I am not 

great : 
There is the man." And Lavaine 

gaped upon him 
As on a thing miraculous, and anon 
The trumpets blew ; and then did 

either side, 



They that assail'd, and they that held 

the lists, 
Set lance in rest, strike spur, suddenly 

move, 
Meet in the midst, and there so 

furiously 
Shock, that a man far-off might well 

perceive, 
If any man that day were left afield, 
The hard earth shake, and a low thun- 
der of arms. 
And Lancelot bode a little, till he saw 
Which were the weaker ; then he 

hurl'd into it 
Against the stronger : little need to 

speak 
Of Lancelot in his glory ! King, duke, 

earl, 
Count, baron — whom he smote, he 

overthrew. 

But in the field were Lancelot's 

kith and kin, 
Ranged with the Table Round that 

held the lists, 
Strong men, and wrathful that a 

stranger knight 
Should do and almost overdo the 

deeds 
Of Lancelot; and one said to the 

other, " Lo ! 
What is he ? I do not mean the force 

alone — 
The grace and versatility of the man ! 
Is it not Lancelot ? " " When has 

Lancelot worn 
Favor of any lady in the lists "? 
Not such his wont, as we, that know 

him, know." 
" How then ? who then 1 " a fury 

seized them all, 
A fiery family passion for the name 
Of Lancelot, and a glory one with 

theirs. 
They couch'd their spears and prick'd 

their steeds, and thus, 
Their plumes driv'n backward by the 

wind they made 
In moving, all together down upon 

him 
Bare, as a wild wave in the wide 

North-sea, 



296 



LANCELOT AND ELALNE. 



Green-glimmering toward the summit, 

bears, with all 
Its stormy crests that smoke against 

the skies, 
Down on a bark, and overbears the 

bark, 
And him that helms it, so they over- 
bore 
Sir Lancelot and his charger, and a 

spear 
Down-glancing lamed the charger, and 

a spear 
Prick'd sharply his own cuirass, and 

the head 
Pierced thro' his side, and there snapt, 

and remain'd. 

Then Sir Lavaine did well and wor- 

shipf ully ; 
He bore a knight of old repute to the 

earth, 
And brought his horse to Lancelot 

where he lay. 
He up the side, sweating with agony, 

got, 
But thought to do while he might yet 

endure, 
And being lustily holpen by the rest, 
His party, — tho' it seem'd half- 
miracle 
To those he fought with, — drave his 

kith and kin, 
And all the Table Round that held 

the lists, 
Back to the barrier; then the trum- 
pets blew 
Proclaiming his the prize, who wore 

the sleeve 
Of scarlet, and the pearls ; and all the 

knights, 
His party, cried " Advance and take 

thy prize 
The diamond;" but he answer'd, 

" Diamond me 
No diamonds! for God's love, a little 

air! 
Prize me no prizes, for my prize is 

death ! 
Hence will I, and I charge you, follow 

me not." 

He spoke, and vanish'd suddenly 
from the field 



With young Lavaine into the poplar 

grove. 
There from his charger down he slid, 

and sat, 
Gasping to Sir Lavaine, "Draw the 

lance-head : " 
" Ah my sweet lord Sir Lancelot," said 

Lavaine, 
" I dread me, if I draw it, you will 

die." 
But he, " I die already with it : draw — 
Draw," — and Lavaine drew, and Sir 

Lancelot gave 
A marvellous great shriek and ghastly 

groan, 
And half his blood burst forth, and 

down he sank 
For the pure pain, and wholly swoon'd 

away. 
Then came the hermit out and bare 

him in, 
There stanch'd his wound ; and there, 

in daily doubt 
Whether to live or die, for many a 

week 
Hid from the wide world's rumor by 

the grove 
Of poplars with their noise of falling 

showers, 
And ever-tremulous aspen-trees, he 

lay. 



But on that day when Lancelot fled 

the lists, 
His party, knights of utmost North 

and West, 
Lords of waste marches, kings of des- 
olate isles, 
Came round their great Pendragon, 

saying to him, 
" Lo, Sire, our knight, thro' whom we 

won the day, 
Hath gone sore wounded, and hath 

left his prize 
Untaken, crying that his prize is 

death." 
" Heaven hinder," said the King, " that 

such an one, 
So great a knight as we have seen 

to-day — 
He seem'd to me another Lancelot — 



LANCELOT AND ELALNE. 



297 



Yea, twenty times I thought him 

Lancelot — 
He must not pass uncared for. 

Wherefore, rise, 

Gawain, and ride forth and find the 

knight. 
Wounded and wearied needs must he 
be near. 

1 charge you that you get at once to 

horse. 
And, knights and kings, there breathes 

not one of you 
Will deem this prize of ours is rashly 

given : 
His prowess was too wondrous. We 

will do him 
No customary honor : since the knight 
Came not to us, of us to claim the 

prize, 
Ourselves will send it after. Rise and 

take 
This diamond, and deliver it, and 

return, 
And bring us where he is, and how he 

fares, 
And cease not from your quest until 

ye find." 

So saying, from the carven flower 

above, 
To which it made a restless heart, he 

took, 
And gave, the diamond : then from 

where he sat 
At Arthur's right, with smiling face 

arose, 
With smiling face and frowning heart, 

a Prince 
In the mid might and flourish of his 

May, 
Gawain. surnamed The Courteous, 

fair and strong, 
And after Lancelot, Tristram, and 

Geraint 
And Gareth, a good knight, but 

therewithal 
Sir Modred's brother, and the child 

of Lot, 
Nor often loyal to his word, and 

now 
Wroth that the King's command to 

sally forth 



In quest of whom he knew not, made 

him leave 
The banquet, and concourse of knights 

and kings. 



So all in wrath he got to horse and 

went ; 
While Arthur to the banquet, dark in 

mood, 
Past, thinking "Is it Lancelot who 

hath come 
Despite the wound he spake of, all for 

gain 
Of glory, and hath added wound to 

wound, 
And ridd'n away to die ? " So fear'd 

the King, 
And, after two days' tarriance there, 

return'd. 
Then when he saw the Queen, em- 
bracing ask'd, 
" Love, are you yet so sick ? " " Nay, 

lord," she said. 
" And where is Lancelot ? " Then the 

Queen amazed, 
" Was he not with you ? won he not 

your prize ? " 
" Nay, but one like him." " Why that 

like was he." 
And when the King demanded how 

she knew, 
Said, " Lord, no sooner had ye parted 

from us, 
Than Lancelot told me of a common 

talk 
That men went down before his spear 

at a touch, 
But knowing he was Lancelot; his 

great name 
Conquer'd ; and therefore would he 

hide his name 
From all men, ev'n the King, and to 

this end 
Had made the pretext of a hindering 

wound, 
That he might joust unknown of all, 

and learn 
If his old prowess were in aught 

decay'd ; 
And added, 'Our true Arthur, when 

he learns, 



298 



LANCELOT AND ELALNE. 



Will well allow my pretext, as for gain 
Of purer glory.' " 

Then replied the King : 
"Far lovelier in our Lancelot had it 

been, 
In lieu of idly dallying with the truth, 
To have trusted me as he hath trusted 

thee. 
Surely his King and most familiar 

friend 
Might well have kept his secret. True, 

indeed, 
Albeit I know my knights fantastical, 
So fine a fear in our large Lancelot 
Must needs have moved my laughter : 

now remains 
But little cause for laughter : his own 

kin — 
111 news, my Queen, for all who love 

him, this ! — 
His kith and kin, not knowing, set 

upon him ; 
So that he went sore wounded from 

the field : 
Yet good news too : for goodly hopes 

are mine 
That Lancelot is no more a lonely 

heart. 
He wore, against his wont, upon his 

helm 
A sleeve of scarlet, broider'd with 

great pearls, 
Some gentle maiden's gift." 

" Yea, lord," she said, 
" Thy hopes are mine," and saying 

that, she choked, 
And sharply turn'd about to hide her 

face, 
Past to her chamber, and there flung 

herself 
Down on the great King's couch, and 

writhed upon it, 
And clench'd her fingers till they bit 

the palm, 
And shriek'd out "Traitor" to the 

unhearing wall, 
Then flash'd into wild tears, and rose 

again, 
And moved about her palace, proud 

and pale. 



Gawain the while thro' all the region 

round 
Rode with his diamond, wearied of 

the quest, 
Touch'd at all points, except the pop- 
lar grove, 
And came at last, tho' late, to Astolat 
Whom glittering in enamell'd arms 

the maid 
Glanced at, and cried, " What news 

from Camelot, lord ? 
What of the knight with the red 

sleeve ? " " He won." 
"I knew it," she said. "But parted 

from the jousts 
Hurt in the side," whereat she caught 

her breath ; 
Thro' her own side she felt the sharp 

lance go ; 
Thereon she smote her hand : wellnigh 

she swoon'd : 
And, while he gazed wonderingly at 

her, came 
The Lord of Astolat out, to whom 

the Prince 
Reported who he was, and on what 

quest 
Sent, that he bore the prize and could 

not find 
The victor, but had ridd'n a random 

round 
To seek him, and had wearied of the 

search. 
To whom the Lord of Astolat, " Bide 

with us, 
And ride no more at random, noble 

Prince ! 
Here was the knight, and here he left 

a shield; 
This will he send or come for : fur- 
thermore 
Our son is with him ; we shall hear 

anon, 
Needs must we hear." To this the 

courteous Prince 
Accorded with his wonted courtesy, 
Courtesy with a touch of traitor 

in it, 
And stay'd ; and cast his eyes on fair 

Elaine : 
Where could be found face daintier 1 

then her shape 



LANCELOT AND ELALNE. 



299 



From forehead down to foot, perfect 

— again 
From foot to forehead exquisitely 

turn'd : 
" Well — if I bide, lo ! this wild flower 

for me ! " 
And oft they met among the garden 

yews, 
And there he set himself to play upon 

her 
With sallying wit, free flashes from a 

height 
Above her, graces of the court, and 

songs, 
Sighs, and slow smiles, and golden 

eloquence 
And amorous adulation, till the 

maid 
Rebell'd against it, saying to him, 

" Prince, 
O loyal nephew of our noble King, 
Why ask you not to see the shield he 

left, 
Whence you might learn his name ? 

Why slight your King, 
And lose the quest he sent you on, 

and prove 
No surer than our falcon yesterday, 
Who lost the hern we slipt her at, 

and went 
To all the winds ? " " Nay, by mine 

head," said he, 
"I lose it, as we lose the lark in 

heaven, 
O damsel, in the light of your blue 

eyes; 
But an ye will it let me see the 

shield." 
And when the shield was brought, and 

Gawain saw 
Sir Lancelot's azure lions, crown'd 

with gold, 
Ramp in the field, he smote his thigh, 

•and mock'd : 
" Right was the King ! our Lancelot ! 

that true man ! " 
"And right was I," she answer'd 

merrily, " I, 
Who dream'd my knight the greatest 

knight of all." 
* And if / dream'd," said Gawain, 

" that you love 



This greatest knight, your pardon ! lo, 

ye know it ! 
Speak therefore : shall I waste myself 

in vain ? " 
Full simple was her answer, " What 

know I ? 
My brethren have been all my fellow- 
ship ; 
And I, when often they have talk'd 

of love, 
Wish'd it had been my mother, for 

they talk'd, 
Meseem'd, of what they knew not; so 

myself — 
I know not if I know what true love is, 
But if I know, then, if I love not him, 
I know there is none other I can 

love." 
"Yea, by God's death," said he, "ye 

love him well, 
But would not, knew ye what all 

others know, 
And whom he loves." "So be it," 

cried Elaine, 
And lifted her fair face and moved 

away : 
But he pursued her, calling, " Stay a 

little ! 
One golden minute's grace ! he wore 

your sleeve : 
Would he break faith with one I may 

not name ? 
Must our true man change like a leaf 

at last ? 
Nay — like enow : why then, far be it 

from m*e 
To cross our mighty Lancelot in his 

loves! 
And, damsel, for I deem you know 

full well 
Where your great knight is hidden, 

let me leave 
My quest with you ; the diamond also ; 

here! 
For if you love, it will be sweet to 

give it ; 
And if he love, it will be sweet to have 

it 
From your own hand ; and whether 

he love or not, 
A diamond is a diamond. Fare yov 

well 



300 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 



A thousand times ! — a thousand times 

farewell ! 
Yet, if he love, and his love hold, we 

two 
May meet at court hereafter : there, 

I think, 
So ye will learn the courtesies of the 

court, 
We two shall know each other." 

Then he gave, 
And slightly kiss'd the hand to which 

he gave, 
The diamond, and all wearied of the 

quest 
Leapt on his horse, and carolling as he 

went, 
A true-love ballad, lightly rode away. 

Thence to the court he past ; there 

told the King 
What the King knew, " Sir Lancelot 

is the knight.'" 
And added, " Sire, my liege, so much 

I learnt; 
But fail'd to find him, tho' I rode all 

round 
The region : but I lighted on the maid 
Whose sleeve he wore ; she loves him; 

and to her, 
Deeming our courtesy is the truest 

law, 
I gave the diamond : she will render it ; 
For by mine head she knows his hid- 
ing-place." 

The seldom-frowning King frown'd, 
and replied, 

"Too courteous truly ! ye shall go no 
more 

On quest of mine, seeing that ye for- 
get 

Obedience is the courtesy due to 
kings." 

He spake and parted. Wroth, but 
all in awe, 

For twenty strokes of the blood, with- 
out a word, 

Linger'd that other, staring after him ; 

Then shook his hair, strode off, and 
buzz'd abroad 

About the maid of Astolat, and her 
love. 



All ears were prick'd at once, all 

tongues were loosed : 
" The maid of Astolat loves Sir Lance- 
lot, 
Sir Lancelot loves the maid of Asto 

lat." 
Some read the King's face, some the 

Queen's, and all 
Had marvel what the maid might be, 

but most 
Predoom'd her as unworthy. One old 

dame 
Came suddenly on the Queen with the 

sharp news. 
She, that had heard the noise of it 

before, 
But sorrowing Lancelot should have 

stoop'd so low, 
Marr'd her friend's aim with pale 

tranquillity. 
So ran the tale like fire about the 

court, 
Fire in dry stubble a nine-days' won- 
der flared : 
Till ev'n the knights at banquet twice 

or thrice 
Forgot to drink to Lancelot and the 

Queen, 
And pledging Lancelot and the lily 

maid 
Smiled at each other, while the Queen, 

who sat 
With lips severely placid, felt the 

knot 
Climb in her throat, and with her feet 

unseen 
Crush'd the wild passion out against 

the floor 
Beneath the banquet, where the meats 

became 
As wormwood, and she hated all who 

pledged. 

But far away the maid in Astolat, 
Her guiltless rival, she that ever 

kept 
The one-day-seen Sir Lancelot in her 

heart, 
Crept to her father, while he mused 

alone, 
Sat on his knee, stroked his gray 

face and said, 



LANCELOT AND ELALNE. 



301 



" Father, you call me wilful, and the 
fault 

Is yours who let me have my will, and 
now, 

Sweet father, will you let me lose my 
wits ? " 

" Nay," said he, " surely." " Where- 
fore, let me hence," 

She answer'd, " and find out our dear 
Lavaine." 

" Ye will not lose your wits for dear 
Lavaine : 

Bide," answer'd he: "we needs must 
hear anon 

Of him, and of that other." "Ay," 
she said, 

" And of that other, for I needs must 
hence 

And find that other, wheresoe'er he 
be, 

And with mine own hand give his dia- 
mond to him, 

Lest I be found as faithless in the 
quest 

As yon proud Prince who left the 
quest to me. 

Sweet father, I behold him in my 
dreams 

Gaunt as it were the skeleton of him- 
self, 

Death -pale, for lack of gentle 
maiden's aid. 

The gentler-born the maiden, the 
more bound, 

My father, to be sweet and service- 
able 

To noble knights in sickness, as ye 
know 

When these have worn their tokens : 
let me hence 

I pray you." Then her father nod- 
ding said, 

"Ay, ay, the diamond: wit ye well, 
my child, 

Right fain were I to learn this knight 
were whole, 

Being our greatest : yea, and you 
must give it — 

And sure I think this fruit is hung 
too high 

Fck any mouth to gape for save a 
queen's — 



Nay, I mean nothing : so then, get you 

gone, 
Being so very wilful you must go." 

Lightly, her suit allow'd, she slipt 

away, 
And while she made her ready for 

her ride, 
Her father's latest word humm'd in 

her ear, 
" Being so very wilful you must go," 
And changed itself and echo'd in her 

heart, 
" Being so very wilful you must die." 
But she was happy enough and shook 

it off, 
As we shake off the bee that buzzes 

at us ; 
And in her heart she answer'd it and 

said, 
" What matter, so I help him back to 

life 1 " 
Then far away with good Sir Torre 

for guide 
Rode o'er the long backs of the bush- 
less downs 
To Camelot, and before the city-gates 
Came on her brother with a happy 

face 
Making a roan horse caper and curvet 
For pleasure all about a field of 

flowers : 
Whom when she saw, " Lavaine," she 

cried, "Lavaine, 
How fares my lord Sir Lancelot 1 " 

He amazed, 
" Torre and Elaine ! why here "? Sir 

Lancelot ! 
How know ye my lord's name is Lan- 
celot 1 " 
But when the maid had told him all 

her tale, 
Then turn'd Sir Torre, and being in his 

moods 
Left them, and under the strange- 

statued gate, 
Where Arthur's wars were render'd 

mystically, 
Past up the still rich city to his 

kin, 
His own far blood, which dwelt at 

Camelot; 



302 



LANCELOT AND ELALNE. 



And her, Lavaine across the poplar 

grove 
Led to the caves : there first she saw 

the casque 
Of Lancelot on the wall : her scarlet 

• sleeve, 
Tho' carved and cut, and half the 

pearls away, 
Stream'd from it still; and in her 

heart she laugh'd, 
Because he had not loosed it from his 

helm, 
But meant once more perchance to 

tourney in it. 
And when they gain'd the cell wherein 

he slept, 
His battle-writhen arms and mighty 

hands 
Lay naked on the wolfskin, and a 

dream 
Of dragging down his enemy made 

them move. 
Then she that saw him lying unsleek, 

unshorn, 
Gaunt as it were the skeleton of him- 
self, 
Utter'd a little tender dolorous cry. 
The sound not wonted in a place so 

still 
Woke the sick knight, and while he 

. roll'd his eyes 
Yet blank from sleep, she started to 

him, saying, 
" Your prize the diamond sent you by 

the King : " 
His eyes glisten'd : she fancied " Is it 

for me 1 " 
And when the maid had told him all 

the tale 
Of King and Prince, the diamond sent, 

the quest 
Assign'd to her not worthy of it, she 

knelt 
Full lowly by the corners of his bed, 
And laid the diamond in his open 

hand. 
Her face was near, and as we kiss the 

child 
That does the task assign'd, he kiss'd 

her face. 
At once she slipt like water to the 

floor. 



"Alas," he said, "your ride hath 

wearied you. 
Rest must you have." " No rest for 

me," she said ; 
" Nay, for near you, fair lord, I am at 

rest." 
What might she mean by that ? his 

large black eyes, 
Yet larger thro' his leanness, dwelt 

upon her, 
Till all her heart's sad secret blazed 

itself 
In the heart's colors on her simple 

face; 
And Lancelot look'd and was perplext 

in mind, 
And being weak in body said no more ; 
But did not love the color ; woman's 

love, 
Save one, he not regarded, and so 

turn'd 
Sighing, and feign'd a sleep until he 

slept. 

Then rose Elaine and glided thro' 

the fields, 
And past beneath the weirdly-sculp- 
tured gates 
Far up the dim rich city to her kin ; 
There bode the night : but woke with 

dawn, and past 
Down thro' the dim rich city to the 

the fields, 
Thence to the cave : so day by day 

she past 
In either twilight ghost-like to and fro 
Gliding, and every day she tended 

him, 
And likewise many a night : and 

Lancelot 
Would, tho' he call'd his wound a 

little hurt 
Whereof he should be quickly whole, 

at times 
Brain-feverous in his heat and agony, 

seem 
Uncourteous, even he : but the meek 

maid 
Sweetly forbore him ever, being to 

him 
Meeker than any child to a ro^gh 

nurse, 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 



303 



Milder than any mother to a sick child, 
And never woman yet, since man's 

first fall, 
Did kindlier unto man, but her deep 

love 
Upbore her; till t he hermit, skill'd in 

all 
The simples and the science of that 

time, 
Told him that her fine care had saved 

his life. 
And the sick man forgot her simple 

blush, 
Would call her friend and sister, 

sweet Elaine, 
Would listen for her coming and 

regret 
Her parting step, and held her ten- 
derly, 
And loved her with all love except 

the love 
Of man and woman when they love 

their best, 
Closest and sweetest, and had died the 

death 
In any knightly fashion for her sake. 
And peradventure had he seen her 

first 
She might have made this and that 

other world 
Another world for the sick man ; but 

now 
The shackles of an old love straitened 

him, 
His honor rooted in dishonor stood, 
And faith unfaithful kept him falsely 

true. 

Yet the great knight in his mid-sick- 
ness made 

Full many a holy vow and pure re- 
solve. 

These, as but born of sickness, could 
not live : 

For when the blood ran lustier in him 
again, 

Full often the bright image of one 
face, 

Making a treacherous quiet in his 
heart, 

Dispersed his resolution like a 
cloud. 



Then if the maiden, while that ghostly 

grace 
Beam'd on his fancy, spoke, he 

answer'd not, 
Or short and coldly, and she knew 

right well 
What the rough sickness meant, but 

what this meant 
She knew not, and the sorrow dimm'd 

her sight, 
And drave her ere her time across the 

fields 
Far into the rich city, where alone 
She murmur'd, " Vain, in vain : it 

cannot be. 
He will not love me : how then ? must 

I die % " 
Then as a little helpless innocent bird, 
That has but one plain passage of few 

notes, 
Will sing the simple passage o'er and 

o'er 
For all an April morning, till the ear 
Wearies to hear it, so the simple maid 
Went half the night repeating, "Must 

I die i " 
And now to right she turn'd, and now 

to left, 
And found no ease in turning or in 

rest; 
And " Him or death," she mutter'd, 

" death or him," 
Again and like a burthen, " Him or 

death." 

But when Sir Lancelot's deadly hurt 

was whole, 
To Astolat returning rode the three. 
There morn by morn, arraying her 

sweet self 
In that wherein she deem'd she look'd 

her best, 
She came before Sir Lancelot, for she 

thought 
" If I be loved, these are my festal 

robes, 
If not, the victim's flowers before he 

fall." 
And Lancelot ever prest upon the 

maid 
That she should ask some goodly gift 

of him 



304 



LANCELOT AND ELALNE. 



For her own self or hers ; " and do not 

shun 
To speak the wish most near to your 

true heart; 
Such service have ye done me, that I 

make 
My will of yours, and Prince and Lord 

am I 
In mine own land, and what I will I 

can." 
Then like a ghost she lifted up her 

face, 
But like a ghost without the power to 

speak. 
And Lancelot saw that she withheld 

her wish, 
And bode among them yet a little 

space 
Till he should learn it ; and one morn 

it chanced 
He found her in among the garden 

yews, 
And said, " Delay no longer, speak 

your wish, 
Seeing I go to-day " : then out she 

brake : 
" Going ? and we shall never see you 

more. 
And I must die for want of one bold 

word." 
" Speak : that I live to hear," he said, 

"is yours." 
Then suddenly and passionately she 

spoke : 
" I have gone mad. I love you : let 

me die." 
" Ah, sister," answer'd Lancelot, 

" what is this ? " 
And innocently extending her white 

arms, 
"Your love," she said, "your love — 

to be your wife." 
And Lancelot answer'd, "Had I chosen 

to wed, 
I had been wedded earlier, sweet 

Elaine : 
But now there never will be wife of 

mine/' 
" No, no," she cried, " I care not to be 

wife, 
But to be with you still, to see your 

face, 



To serve you, and to follow you thro' 

the world." 
And Lancelot answer'd, "Nay, the 

world, the world, 
All ear and eye, with such a stupid 

heart 
To interpret ear and eye, and such a 

tongue 
To blare its own interpretation — nay, 
Full ill then should I quit your 

brother's love, 
And your good father's kindness." 

And she said, 
" Not to be with you, not to see your 

face — 
Alas for me then, my good days are 

done." 
"Nay, noble maid," he answer'd, "ten 

times nay ! 
This is not love : but love's first flash 

in youth, 
Most common : yea, I know it of mine 

own self : 
And you yourself will smile at your 

own self 
Hereafter, when you yield your flower 

of life 
To one more fitly yours, not thrice 

your age : 
And then will I, for true you are and 

sweet 
Beyond mine old belief in woman- 
hood, 
More specially should your good 

knight be poor, 
Endow you with broad land and ter- 
ritory 
Even to the half my realm beyond 

the seas, 
So that would make you happy : 

furthermore, 
Ev'n to the death, as tho' ye were my 

blood, 
In all your quarrels will I be your 

knight. 
This will I do, dear damsel, for your 

sake, 
And more than this I cannot." 

While he spoke 

She neither blush'd nor shook, but 

deathly-pale 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 



305 



Stood grasping what was nearest, then 

replied : 
"Of all this will I nothing; " and so 

fell, 
And thus they bore her swooning to 

her tower. 

Then spake, to whom thro' those 
black walls of yew 

Their talk had pierced, her father : 
" Ay, a flash, 

I fear me, that will strike my blossom 
dead. 

Too courteous are ye, fair Lord Lance- 
lot. 

I pray you, use some rough dis- 
courtesy 

To blunt or break her passion." 

Lancelot said, 
" That were against me : what I can 

I will ; " 
And there that day remain'd, and 

toward even 
Sent for his shield : full meekly rose 

the maid, 
Stript off the case, and gave the naked 

shield ; 
Then, when she heard his horse upon 

the stones, 
Unclasping flung the casement back, 

and look'd 
Down on his helm, from which her 

sleeve had gone. 
And Lancelot knew the little clinking 

sound; 
And she by tact of love was well aware 
That Lancelot knew that she was look- 
ing at him. 
And yet he glanced not up, nor waved 

his hand, 
Nor bade farewell, but sadly rode away. 
This was the one discourtesy that he 

used. 

So in her tower alone the maiden 

sat : 
His very shield was gone ; only the 

case, 
Her own poor work, her empty labor, 

left. 



But still she heard him, still his picture 
form'd 

And grew between her and the pic- 
tured wall. 

Then came her father, saying in low 
tones, 

"Have comfort," whom she greeted 
quietly. 

Then came her brethren saying, 
" Peace to thee, 

Sweet sister," whom she answer'd with 
all calm. 

But when they left her to herself 
again, 

Death, like a friend's voice from a dis- 
tant field 

Approaching thro' the darkness, 
call'd; the owls 

Wailing had power upon her, and she 
mixt 

Her fancies with the sallow-rifted 
glooms 

Of evening, and the moanings of the 
wind. 

And in those days she made a little 

song, 
And call'd her song " The Song of 

Love and Death," 
And sang it : sweetly could she make 

and sing. 

" Sweet is true love tho' given in 

vain, in vain ; 
And sweet is death who puts an end 

to pain : 
I know not which is sweeter, no, not I. 

"Love, art thou sweet ? then bitter 

death must be : 
Love, thou art bitter ; sweet is death 

to me. 
O Love, if death be sweeter, let me 

die. 



" Sweet love, that seems not made 

to fade away, 
Sweet death, that seems to make uz 

loveless clay, 
I know not which is sweeter, no, not I. 



306 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 



" I fain would follow love, if that 

could be ; 
I needs must follow death, who calls 

for me ; 
Call and I follow, I follow ! let me 

die." 

High with the last line scaled her 

voice, and this, 
All in a fiery daw r ning wild with wind 
That shook the tower, the brothers 

heard, and thought 
With shuddering, " Hark the Phan- 
tom of the house 
That ever shrieks before a death," 

and call'd 
The father, and all three in hurry and 

fear 
Ran to her, and lo ! the blood-red light 

of dawn 
Flared on her face, she shrilling, "Let 

me die ! " 

As when we dwell upon a word we 

know, 
Repeating, till the word we know so 

well 
Becomes a wonder, and we know not 

why, 
So dwelt the father on her face, and 

thought 
" Is this Elaine 1 " till back the maiden 

fell, 
Then gave a languid hand to each, 

and lay, 
Speaking a still good-morrow with her 

eyes. 
At last she said, " Sweet brothers, yes- 

ter-night 
I seem'd a curious little maid again, 
As happy as when we dwelt among 

the woods, 
And when ye used to take me with 

the flood 
Up the great river in the boatman's 

boat. 
Only ye would not pass beyond the 

cape 
That has the poplar on it : there ye 

fixt 
Your limit, oft returning with the 

tide, 



And yet I cried because ye would not 

pass 
Beyond it, and far up the shining 

flood 
Until we found the palace of the 

King. 
And yet ye would not : but this night 

I dream' d 
That I was all alone upon the flood, 
And then I said, ' Now shall I have 

my will : ' 
And there I woke, but still the wish 

remain'd. 
So let me hence that I may pass at 

last 
Beyond the poplar and far up the 

flood, 
Until I find the palace of the King. 
There will I enter in among them all, 
And no man there will dare to mock 

at me; 
But there the fine Gawain will wonder 

at me, 
And there the great Sir Lancelot muse 

at me ; 
Gawain, who bade a thousand fare- 
wells to me, 
Lancelot, who coldly went, nor bade 

me one : 
And there the King will know me and 

my love, 
And there the Queen herself will pity 

me, 
And all the gentle court will welcome 

me, 
And after my long voyage I shall 

rest ! " 

" Peace," said her father, " O my 

child, ye seem 
Light-headed, for what force is yours 

to go 
So far, being sick ? and wherefore 

would ye look 
On this proud fellow again, who 

scorns us all ? " 

Then the rough Torre began to 
heave and move, 
And bluster into stormy sobs and 
say, 



LANCELOT AND ELAWE. 



307 



" 1 never loved him : an 1 meet with 

him, 
I care not howsoever great he be, 
Then will I strike at him and strike 

him down. 
Give me good fortune, I will strike 

him dead, 
For this discomfort he hath done the 

house." 

To whom the gentle sister made 

reply, 
" Fret not yourself, dear brother, nor 

be wroth, 
Seeing it is no more Sir Lancelot's 

fault 
Not to love me, than it is mine to 

love 
Him of all men who seems to me the 

highest." 

" Highest ? " the father answered, 

echoing " highest ? " 
(He meant to break the passion in 

her) "nay, 
Daughter, I know not what you call 

the highest ; 
But this I know, for all the people 

know it, 
He loves the Queen, and in an open 

shame : 
And she returns his love in open 

shame ; 
If this be high, what is it to be low 1 " 

Then spake the lily maid of Asto- 

lat: 
" Sweet father, all too faint and sick 

am I 
For anger : these are slanders : never 

yet 
Was noble man but made ignoble talk. 
He makes no friend who never made 

a foe. 
But now it is my glory to have loved 
One peerless, without stain : so let me 



My father, howsoe'er I seem to you, 
Not all unhappy, having loved God s 

best 
And greatest, tho' my love had no 

return : 



Yet, seeing you desire your child to 

live, 
Thanks, but you work against your 

own desire ; 
For if I could believe the things you 

say 
I should but die the sooner; wherefore 

cease, 
Sweet father, and bid call the ghostly 

man 
Hither, and let me shrive me clean, 

and die." 

So when the ghostly man had come 

and gone, 
She with a face, bright as for sin for- 
given, 
Besought Lavaine to write as she 

devised 
A letter, word for word ; and when he 

ask'd 
" Is it for Lancelot, is it for my dear 

lord? 
Then will I bear it gladly ; " she re- 
plied, 
" For Lancelot and the Queen and all 

the world, 
But I myself must bear it." Then he 

wrote 
The letter she devised ; which being 

writ 
And folded, " O sweet father, tender 

and true, 
Deny me not," she said — "ye never 

yet 
Denied my fancies — this, however 

strange, 
My latest : lay the letter in my 

hand 
A little ere I die, and close the hand 
Upon it ; I shall guard it even in 

death. 
And when the heat is gone from out 

my heart, 
Then take the little bed on which I 

died 
For Lancelot's love, and deck it like 

the Queen's 
For richness, and me also like the 

Queen 
In all I have of rich, and lay me on 

it. 



308 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 



And let there be prepared a chariot- 
bier 
To take me to the river, and a barge 
Be ready on the river, clothed in black. 
I go in state to court, to meet the 

Queen. 
There surely I shall speak for mine 

own self, 
And none of you can speak for me 

so well. 
And therefore let our dumb old man 

alone 
Go with me, he can steer and row, 

and he 
Will guide me to that palace, to the 

doors." 

She ceased : her father promised ; 

whereupon 
She grew so cheerful that they deem'd 

her death 
Was rather in the fantasy than the 

blood. 
But ten slow mornings past, and on 

the eleventh 
Her father laid the letter in her hand, 
And closed the hand upon it, and she 

died. 
So that day there was dole in Astolat. 

But when the next sun brake from 

underground, 
Then, those two brethren slowly with 

bent brows 
Accompanying, the sad chariot-bier 
Past like a shadow thro' the field, 

that shone 
Full-summer, to that stream whereon 

the barge, 
PalPd all its length in blackest samite, 

lay. 
There sat the lifelong creature of the 

house, 
Loyal, the dumb old servitor, on deck, 
Winking his eyes, and twisted all his 

face. 
So those two brethren from the chariot 

took 
And on the black decks laid her in 

her bed, 
Set in her hand a lily, o'er her hung 



The silken case with braided blazon 
ings, 

And kiss'd her quiet brows, and saying 
to her 

" Sister, farewell for ever," and again 

" Farewell, sweet sister," parted all in 
tears. 

Then rose the dumb old servitor, ami 
the dead, 

Oar'd by the dumb, went upward with 
the flood — 

In her right hand the lily, in her left 

The letter — all her bright hair stream- 
ing down — 

And all the coverlid was cloth of gold 

Drawn to her waist, and she herself 
in white 

All but her face, and that clear-fea- 
tured face 

Was lovely, for she did not seem as 
dead, 

But fast asleep, and lay as tho* she 
smiled. 

That day Sir Lancelot at the palace 

craved 
Audience of Guinevere, to give at last 
The price of half a realm, his costly 

gift, 
Hard-won and hardly won with bruise 

and blow, 
With deaths of others, and almost his 

own, 
The nine-years-fought-for diamonds: 

for he saw 
One of her house, and sent him to the 

Queen 
Bearing his wish, whereto the Queen 

agreed 
With such and so unmoved a majesty 
She might have seem'd her statue, but 

that he, 
Low-drooping till he wellnigh kiss'd 

her feet 
For loyal awe, saw with a sidelong 

eye 
The shadow of some piece of pointed 

lace, 
In the Queen's shadow, vibrate on the 

walls, 
And parted, laughing in his courtly 

heart. 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 



309 



All in an oriel on the summer side, 
Vine-clad, of Arthur's palace toward 

the stream, 
They met, and Lancelot kneeling 

utter'd, " Queen, 
Lady, my liege, in whom I have my 

joy, 
Take, what I had not won except for 

you, 
These jewels, and make me happy, 

making them 
An armlet for the roundest arm on 

earth, 
Or necklace for a neck to which the 

swan's 
Is tawnier than her cygnet's : these 

are words : 
Your beauty is your beauty, and I 

sin 
In speaking, yet grant my worship 

of it 
Words, as we grant grief tears. Such 

sin in words 
Perchance, we both can pardon : but, 

my Queen, 
I hear of rumors flying thro' your 

court. 
Our bond, as not the bond of man and 

wife, 
Should have in it an absoluter trust 
To make up that defect : let rumors 

be: 
When did not rumors fly ? these, as I 

trust 
That you trust ma in your own noble- 
ness, 
I may not well believe that you be- 
lieve." 

While thus he spoke, half turn'd 

away, the Queen 
Brake from the vast oriel-embowering 

vine 
Leaf after leaf, and tore, and cast 

them off, 
Till all the place whereon she stood 

was green ; 
Then, when he ceased, in one cold 

passive hand 
Received at once and laid aside the 

gems 
There on a table near her, and replied : 



" It may be, I am quicker of belief 
Than you believe me, Lancelot of the 

Lake. 
Our bond is not the bond of man and 

wife. 
This good is in it, whatsoe'er of ill, 
It can be broken easier. I for you 
This many a year have done despite 

and wrong 
To one whom ever in my heart of 

hearts 
I did acknowledge nobler. What are 

these ? 
Diamonds for me ! they had been 

thrice their worth 
Being your gift, had you not lost your 

own. 
To loyal hearts the value of all 

gifts 
Must vary as the giver's. Not for 

me ! 
For her ! for your new fancy. Only 

this 
Grant me, I pray you : have your joys 

apart. 
I doubt not that however changed, 

you keep 
So much of what is graceful: and 

myself 
Would shun to break those bounds of 

courtesy 
In which as Arthur's Queen I move 

and rule : 
So cannot speak my mind. An end 

to this ! 
A strange one! yet I take it with 

Amen. 
So pray you, add my diamonds to her 

pearls ; 
Deck her with these ; tell her, she 

shines me down : 
An armlet for an arm to which the 

Queen's 
Is haggard, or a necklace for a neck 
O as much fairer — as a faith once fair 
Was richer than these diamonds — 

hers not mine — 
Nay, by the mother of our Lord him- 
self, 
Or hers or mine, mine now to work 

my will — 
She shall not have them." 



310 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 



Saying which she seized, 
And, thro' the casement standing wide 

for heat, 
Flung them, and down they fiash'd, 

and smote the stream. 
Then from the smitten surface fiash'd, 

as it were, 
Diamonds to meet them, and they past 

away. 
Then while Sir Lancelot leant, in half 

disdain 
At love, life, all things, on the window 

ledge, 
Close underneath his eyes, and right 

across 
Where these had fallen, slowly past 

the barge 
Whereon the lily maid of Astolat 
Lay smiling, like a star in blackest 

night. 

But the wild Queen, who saw not, 

burst away 
To weep and wail in secret ; and the 

barge, 
On to the palace-doorway sliding, 

paused. 
There two stood arm'd, and kept the 

door ; to whom, 
All up the marble stair, tier over 

tier, 
Were added mouths that gaped, and 

eyes that ask'd 
"What is it?" but that oarsman's 

haggard face, 
As hard and still as is the face that 

men 
Shape to their fancy's eye from broken 

rocks 
On some cliff-side, appall'd them, and 

they said, 
"He is enchanted, cannot speak — 

and she, 
Look how she sleeps — the Fairy 

Queen, so fair! 
Yea, but how pale ! what are they 1 

flesh and blood ? 
Or come to take the King to Fairy- 
land ? 
For some do hold our Arthur cannot 

die, 
But that he passes into Fairyland." 



While thus they babbled of the 

King, the King 
Came girt with knights : then turn'd 

the tongueless man 
From the half-face to the full eye, 

and rose 
And pointed to the damsel, and the 

doors. 
So Arthur bade the meek Sir Percivale 
And pure Sir Galahad to uplift the 

maid; 
And reverently they bore her into 

hall. 
Then came the fine Gawain and won- 

der'd at her, 
And Lancelot later came and mused 

at her, 
And last the Queen herself, and pitied 

her: 
But Arthur spied the letter in her 

hand, 
Stoopt, took, brake seal, and read it ; 

this was all : 



" Most noble lord, Sir Lancelot of 
the Lake, 

I, sometime call'd the maid of Astolat, 

Come, for you left me taking no fare- 
well, 

Hither, to take my last farewell of 
you. 

I loved you, and my love had no 
return, 

And therefore my true love has been 
my death. 

And therefore to our Lady Guinevere, 

And to all other ladies, I make moan. 

Pray for my soul, and yield me burial. 

Pray for my soul thou too, Sir Lan- 
celot, 

As thou art a knight peerless." 

Thus he read ; 
And ever in the reading, lords and 

dames 
Wept, looking often from his face who 

read 
To hers which lay so silent, and at 

times, 
So touch'd were they, half-thinking 

that her lips, 



LANCEL01 AND ELAINE. 



.11 



Who had devised the letter, moved 
again. 

Then freely spoke Sir Lancelot to 

them all : 
" My lord liege Arthur, and all ye that 

hear, 
Know that for this most gentle 

maiden's death 
Right heavy am I ; for good she was 

and true, 
But loved me with a love beyond all 

love 
In women, whomsoever I have known. 
Yet to be loved makes not to love 

again ; 
Not at my years, however it hold in 

youth. 
I swear by truth and knighthood that 

I gave 
No cause, not willingly, for such a 

love : 
To this I call my friends in testimony, 
Her brethren, and her father, who 

himself 
Besought me to be plain and blunt, 

and use, 
To break her passion, some discourtesy 
Against my nature : what I could, I 

did. 
I left her and I bade her no farewell ; 
Tho', had I dreamt the damsel would 

have died, 
I might have put my wits to some 

rough use, 
And help'd her from herself." 

Then said the Queen 
(Sea was her wrath, yet working after 

storm) 
" Ye might at least have done her so 

much grace, 
Fair lord, as would have help'd her 

from her death." 
He raised his head, their eyes met and 

hers fell, 
He adding, 

"Queen, she would not be content 
Save that I wedded her, which could 

not be. 
Then might she follow me thro' the 

world, she ask'd- 



It could not be. I told her that her 

love 
Was but the flash of youth, would 

darken down 
To rise hereafter in a stiller flame 
Toward one more worthy of her — 

then would I, 
More specially were he, she wedded, 

poor, 
Estate them with large land and ter- 
ritory 
In mine own realm beyond the narrow 

seas, 
To keep them in all joyance : more 

than this 
I could not; this she would not, and 

she died." 



He pausing, Arthur answer'd, "0 
my knight, 

It will be to thy worship, as my 
knight, 

And mine, as head of all our Table 
Round, 

To see that she be buried worship- 
fully." 

So toward that shrine which then in 
all the realm 

Was richest, Arthur leading, slowly 
went 

The marshall'd Order of their Table 
Round, 

And Lancelot sad beyond his wont, 
to see, 

The maiden buried, not as one un- 
known, 

Nor meanly, but with gorgeous obse- 
quies, 

And mass, and rolling music, like a 
queen. 

And when the knights had laid her 
comely head 

Low in the dust of half-forgotten 
kings, 

Then Arthur spake among them, 
" Let her tomb 

Be costly, and her image thereupon, 

And let the shield of Lancelot at her 
feet 

Be carven, and her lily in her hand. 



312 



LANCELOT AND ELALNE. 



And let the story of her dolorous 

voyage 
For all true hearts be blazon'd on her 

tomb 
In letters gold and azure ! " which was 

wrought 
Thereafter; but when now the lords 

and dames 
And people, from the high door 

streaming, brake 
Disorderly, as homeward each, the 

Queen, 
Who mark'd Sir Lancelot where he 

moved apart, 
Drew near, and sigh'd in passing, 

"Lancelot, 
Forgive me; mine was jealousy in 

love." 
He answer'd with his eyes upon the 

ground, 
" That is love's curse ; pass on, my 

Queen, forgiven." 
But Arthur, who beheld his cloudy 

brows, 
Approach'd him, and with full affec- 
tion said, 



"Lancelot, my Lancelot, thou in 

whom I have 
Most joy and most affiance, for I 

know 
What thou hast been in battle by my 

side, 
And many a time have watch'd thee 

at the tilt 
Strike down the lusty and long prac- 
tised knight, 
And let the younger and unskill'd 

go by 
To win his honor and to make his 

name, 
And loved thy courtesies and thee, a 

man 
Made to be loved ; but now I would 

to God, 
Seeing the homeless trouble in thine 

eyes, 
Thou couldst have loved this maiden, 

shaped, it seems, 
By God for thee alone, and from her 

face. 



If one may judge the living by the 

dead, 
Delicately pure and marvellously fair, 
Who might have brought thee, now a 

lonely man 
Wifeless and heirless, noble issue, sons 
Born to the glory of thy name and 

fame, 
My knight, the great Sir Lancelot of 

the Lake." 

Then answer'd Lancelot, " Fair she 

was, my King, 
Pure, as you ever wish your knights 

to be. 
To doubt her fairness were to want an 

eye, 
To doubt her pureness were to want a 

heart — 
Yea, to be loved, if what is worthy love 
Could bind him, but free love will not 

be bound." 

" Free love, so bound, were freest," 

said the King. 
"Let love be free; free love is for 

the best : 
And, after heaven, on our dull side of 

death, 
What should be best, if not so pure a 

love 
Clothed in so pure a loveliness ? yet 

thee 
She fail'd to bind, tho' being, as I 

think, 
Unbound as yet, and gentle, as I 

know." 



And Lancelot answer'd nothing, but 

he went, 
And at the inrunning of a little brook 
Sat by the river in a cove, and 

watch'd 
The high reed wave, and lifted up his 

eyes 
And saw the barge that brought her 

moving down, 
Far-off, a blot upon the stream, and 

said 
Low in himself, " Ah simple heart and 

sweet, 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



313 



Ye loved me. damsel, surely with a 

love 
Far tenderer than my Queen's. Pray 

for thy soul ? 
Ay, that will I. Farewell too — now 

at last — 
Farewell, fair lily. 'Jealousy in 

love?' 
Not rather dead love's harsh heir, 

jealous pride ? 
Queen, if I grant the jealousy as of 

love, 
May not your crescent fear for name 

and fame 
Speak, as it waxes, of a love that 

wanes ? 
Why did the King dwell on my name 

to me ? 
Mine own name shames me, seeming 

a reproach, 
Lancelot, whom the Lady of the Lake 
Caught from his mother's arms — 

the wondrous one 
Who passes thro" the vision of the 

night — 
She chanted snatches of mysterious 

hymns 
Heard on the winding waters, eve and 

morn 
She kiss'd me saying, ' Thou art fair, 

my child, 
As a king's son,' and often in her arms 
She bare me, pacing on the dusky 

mere. 
Would she had drown'd me in it, 

where'er it be ! 
For what am I ? what profits me my 

name 
Of greatest knight 1 I fought for it, 

and have it : 
Pleasure to have it, none ; to lose it, 

pain; 
Now grown a part of me : but what 

use in it ? 
To make men worse by making my 

sin known 1 
Or sin seem less, the sinner seeming 

great 1 
Alas for Arthur's greatest knight, a 

man 
Not after Arthur's heart ! I needs 

must break 



These bonds that so defame me : not 

without 
She wills it : would I, if she will'd it ? 

nay, 
Who knows ? but if I would not, then 

may God, * 
I pray him, send a sudden Angel down 
To seize me by the hair and bear me 

far, 
And fling me deep in that forgotten 

mere, 
Among the tumbled fragments of the 

hills." 

So groan'd Sir Lancelot in remorse- 
ful pain, 
Not knowing he should die a holy 
man. 



THE HOLY GEAIL. 

From noiseful arms, and acts of 

prowess done 
In tournament or tilt, Sir Percivale, 
Whom Arthur and his knighthood 

call'd The Pure, 
Had pass'd into the silent life of 

prayer, 
Praise, fast, and alms ; and leaving 

for the cowl 
The helmet in an abbey far away 
From Camelot, there, and not long 

after, died. 

And one, a fellow-monk among 

the rest, 
Ambrosius, loved him much beyond 

the rest, 
And honor'd him, and wrought into 

his heart 
A way by love that waken'd love 

within, 
To answer that which came: and as 

they sat 
Beneath a world-old yew-tree, darken- 
ing half 
The cloisters, on a gustful April morn 
That puff 'd the swaying branches into 

smoke 
Above them, ere the summer wher 

he died, 



314 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



The monk Ambrosius question'd 
Percivale : 

" brother, I have seen this yew- 
tree smoke, 
Spring after spring, for half a hun- 
dred years : 
For never have I known the world 

without, 
Nor ever stray'd beyond the pale : but 

thee, 
When first thou earnest — such a 

courtesy 
Spake thro' the limbs and in the 

voice — 

I knew 
For one of those who eat in Arthur's 

hall; 
For good ye are and bad, and like to 

coins, 
Some true, some light, but every one 

of you 
Stamp'd with the image of the King ; 

and now 
Tell me, what drove thee from the 

Table Round, 
My brother 1 was it earthly passion 

crost 1 " 

" Nay/' said the knight ; " for no 

such passion mine 
But the sweet vision of the Holy 

Grail 
Drove me from all vainglories, rival- 
ries, 
And earthly heats that spring and 

sparkle out 
Among us in the jousts, while women 

watch 
Who wins, who falls ; and waste the 

spiritual strength 
Within us, better offer'd up to 

Heaven." 

To whom the monk: "The Holy 
Grail ! — I trust 
We are green in Heaven's eyes ; but 

here too much 
We moulder — as to things without I 

mean — 
Yet one of your own knights, a guest 
# of ours, 



Told us of this in our refectory, 

But spake with such a sadness and so 

low 
We heard not half of what he said. 

What is it ? 
The phantom of a cup that comes 

and goes ? " 

" Nay, monk ! what phantom ? " 

answer'd Percivale. 
" The cup, the cup itself, from which 

our Lord 
Drank at the last sad supper with his 

own. 
This, from the blessed land of Aro- 

mat — 
After the day of darkness, when the 

dead 
Went wandering o'er Moriah — the 

good saint 
Arimathaean Joseph, journeying 

brought 
To Glastoabury, where the winter 

thorn 
Blossoms at Christmas, mindful of 

our Lord. 
And there awhile it bode ; and if a 

man 
Could touch or see it, he was heal'd 

at once, 
By faith, of all his ills. But then the 

times 
Grew to such evil that the holy cup 
Was caught away to Heaven, and 

disappear'd." 

To whom the monk: "From our 
old books I know 

That Joseph came of old to Glaston- 
bury, 

And there the heathen Prince, Arvi- 
ragus, 

Gave him an isle of marsh whereon to 
build ; 

And there he built with wattles from 
the marsh 

A little lonely church in days of yore, 

For so they say, these books of ours, 
but seem 

Mute of this miracle, far as I have read. 

But who first saw the holy thing to- 
day ? " 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



315 



" A woman," answer'd Fercivale, 

"a nun, 
And one no further off in blood from 

me 
Than sister ; and if ever holy maid 
With knees of adoration wore the 

stone, 
A holy maid ; tho' never maiden 

glow'd, 
But that was in her earlier maiden- 
hood, 
With such a fervent flame of human 

love, 
Which being rudely blunted, glanced 

and shot 
Only to holy things ; to prayer and 

praise 
She gave herself, to fast and alms. 

And yet, 
Nun as she was, the scandal of the 

Court, 
Sin against Arthur and the Table 

Round, 
And the strange sound of an adulter- 
ous race, 
Across the iron grating of her cell 
Beat, and she pray'd and fasted all 

the more. 

" And he to whom she told her sins, 

or what 
Her all but utter whiteness held for 

sin, 
A man wellnigh a hundred winters old, 
Spake often with her of the Holy Grail, 
A legend handed down thro' five or six, 
And each of these a hundred winters 

old, 
From our Lord's time. And when 

King Arthur made 
His Table Round, and all men's hearts 

became 
Clean for a season, surely he had 

thought 
That now the Holy Grail would come 

again ; 
But sin broke out. Ah, Christ, that it 

would come, 
And heal the world of all their wicked- 
ness ! 
'O Father ! ' ask'd the maiden, ' might 

it come 



To me by prayer and fasting ? ' ' Nay,' 

said he, 
' I know not, for thy heart is pure as 

snow/ 
And so she pray'd and fasted, till the 

sun 
Shone, and the wind blew, thro' her, 

and I thought 
She might have risen and floated when 

I saw her. 

"For on a day she sent to speak 

with me. 
And when she came to speak, behold 

her eyes 
Beyond my knowing of them, beauti- 
ful, 
Beyond all knowing of them, won- 
derful, 
Beautiful in the light of holiness. 
And ' O my brother Percivale,' she 

said, 
' Sweet brother, I have seen the Holy 

Grail : 
For, waked at dead of night, I heard 

a sound 
As of a silver horn from o'er the hills 
Blown, and I thought, " It is not 

Arthur's use 
To hunt by moonlight ; " and the slen- 
der sound 
As from a distance beyond distance 

grew 
Coming upon me — O never harp nor 

horn, 
Nor aught we blow with breath, or 

touch with hand, 
Was like that music as it came ; and 

then 
Stream'd thro' my cell a cold and 

silver beam, 
And down the long beam stole the 

Holy Grail, 
Rose-red with beatings in it, as if 

alive, 
Till all the white walls of my cell were 

dyed 
With rosy colors leaping on the wall; 
And then the music faded, and the 

Grail 
Past, and the beam deeay'd, and from 

the walls 



316 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



The rosy quiverings died into the 

night. 
So now the Holy Thing is here again 
Among us, brother, fast thou too and 

pray, 
And tell thy brother knights to fast 

and pray, 
That so perchance the vision may be 

seen 
By thee and those, and all the world 

be heal'd.' 

" Then leaving the pale nun, I spake 
of this 

To all men ; and myself fasted and 
pray'd 

Always, and many among us many a 
week 

Fasted and pray'd even to the utter- 
most, 

Expectant of the wonder that would 
be. 

" And one there was among us, ever 

moved 
Among us in white armor, Galahad. 
' God make thee good as thou art 

beautiful,' 
Said Arthur, when he dubb'd him 

knight; and none, 
In so young youth, was ever made a 

knight 
Till Galahad ; and this Galahad, when 

he heard 
My sister's vision, fill'd me with amaze; 
His eyes became so like her own, they 

seem'd 
Hers, and himself her brother more 

than I. 

" Sister or brother none had he ; but 

some 
Call'd him a son of Lancelot, and some 

said 
Begotten by enchantment— chatterers 

they, 
Life birds of passage piping up and 

down, 
That gape for flies — we know not 

whence they come ; 
For when was Lancelot wanderingly 

lewd? 



"But she, the wan sweet maiden, 

shore away 
Clean from her forehead all that 

wealth of hair 
Which made a silken mat-work for 

her feet ; 
And out of this she plaited broad and 

long 
A strong sword-belt, and wove with 

silver thread 
And crimson in the belt a strange 

device, 
A crimson grail within a silver beam ; 
And saw the bright boy-knight, and 

bound it on him, 
Saying, ' My knight, my love, my 

knight of heaven, 
O thou, my love, whose love is one 

with mine, 
I, maiden, round thee, maiden, bind 

my belt. 
Go forth, for thou shalt see what I 

have seen, 
And break thro' all, till one will crown 

thee king 
Far in the spiritual city : ' and as she 

spake 
She sent her deathless passion in her 

eyes 
Thro' him, and made him hers, and 

laid her mind 
On him, and he believed in her belief. 

" Then came a year of miracle : O 

brother, 
In our great hall there stood a vacant 

chair, 
Fashion'd by Merlin ere he past away, 
And carven with strange figures ; and 

in and out 
The figures, like a serpent, ran a scroll 
Of letters in a tongue no man could 

read. 
And Merlin call'd it ' The Siege peril- 
ous/ 
Perilous for good and ill ; ' for there,' 

he said, 
' No man could sit but he should lose 

himself : ' 
And once by misadvertence Merlin sat 
. In his own chair, and so was lost ; but 

he, 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



317 



Galahad, when he heard of Merlin's 
doom, 

Cried, 'If I lose myself, I save my- 
self!' 

" Then on a summer night it came 
to pass, 

Whib the great banquet lay along the 
hall, 

That Galahad would sit down in Mer- 
lin's chair. 

" And all at once, as there we sat, 

we heard 
A cracking and a riving of the roofs, 
And rending, and a blast, and over- 
head 
Thunder, and in the thunder was a cry. 
And in the blast there smote along the 

hall 
A beam of light seven times more 

clear than day : 
And down the long beam stole the 

Holy Grail 
All over co ver'd with a luminous cloud, 
And none might see who bare it, and 

it past. 
But every knight beheld his fellow's 

face 
As in a glory, and all the knights arose, 
And staring each at other like dumb 

men 
Stood, till I found a voice and sware 

a vow. 

"I sware a vow before them all, 

that I, 
Because I had not seen the Grail, would 

ride 
A twelvemonth and a day in quest of 

it, 
Until I found and saw it, as the nun 
My sister saw it ; and Galahad sware 

the vow, 
And good Sir Bors, our Lancelot's 

cousin, sware, 
And Lancelot sware, and many among 

the knights, 
And Gawain sware, and louder than 

the rest." 

Then spake the monk Ambrosius, 
asking him, 



" What said the King 1 Did Arthur 
take the vow 1 " 



" Nay, for my lord," said Percivale, 

" the King, 
Was not in hall : for early that same 

day, 
Scaped thro' a cavern from a bandit 

hold, 
An outraged maiden sprang into the 

hall 
Crying on help : for all her shining 

hair 
Was smear'd with earth, and either 

milky arm 
Red-rent with hooks of bramble, and 

all she wore 
Torn as a sail that leaves the rope is 

torn 
In tempest : so the King arose and 

went 
To smoke the scandalous hive of those 

wild bees 
That made such honey in his realm. 

Howbeit 
Some little of this marvel he too saw, 
Returning o'er the plain that then 

began 
To darken under Camelot ; whence the 

King 
Look'd up, calling aloud, ' Lo, there ! 

the roofs 
Of our great hall are roll'd in thunder- 
smoke ! 
Pray Heaven, they be not smitten by 

the bolt.' 
For dear to Arthur was that hall of 

ours, 
As having there so oft with all his 

knights 
Feasted, and as the stateliest under 

heaven. 

" O brother, had you known our 

mighty hall, 
Which Merlin built for Arthur long 

ago ! 
For ail the sacred mount of Camelot, 
And all the dim rich city, roof by 

roof, 
Tower after tower, spire beyond spire, 



318 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



By grove, and garden-lawn, and rush- 
ing brook, 
Climbs to the mighty hall that Merlin 

built. 
And four great zones of sculpture, set 

betwixt 
With many a mystic symbol, gird the 

hall: 
And in the lowest beasts are slaying 

men, 
And in the second men are slaying 

beasts, 
And on the third are warriors, perfect 

men, 
And on the fourth are men with grow- 
ing wings, 
And over all one statue in the mould 
Of Arthur, made by Merlin, with a 

crown, 
And peak'd wings pointed to the 

Northern Star. 
And eastward fronts the statue, and 

the crown 
And both the wings are made of gold, 

and flame 
At sunrise till the people in far 

fields, 
Wasted so often by the heathen 

hordes, 
Behold it, crying, 'We have still a 

King.' 

" And, brother, had you known our 

hall within, 
Broader and higher than any in all 

the lands ! 
Where twelve great windows blazon 

Arthur's wars, 
And all the light that falls upon the 

board 
Streams thro' the twelve great battles 

of our King. 
Nay, one there is, and at the eastern 

end, 
Wealthy with wandering lines of 

mount and mere, 
Where Arthur finds the brand Excali- 

bur. 
And also one to the west, and counter 

to it, 
And blank : and who shall blazon it ? 

when and how ? — 



O there, perchance, when all our wars 

are done, 
The brand Excalibur will be cast 

away. 

" So to this hall full quickly rode 

the King, 
In horror lest the work by Merlin 

wrought, 
Dreamlike, should on the sudden van- 
ish, wrapt 
In unremorseful folds of rolling fire. 
And in he rode, and up I glanced, and 

saw 
The golden dragon sparkling over all : 
And many of those who burnt the 

hold, their arms 
Hack'd, and their foreheads grimed 

with smoke, and sear'd, 
Follow'd, and in among bright faces, 

ours, 
Full of the vision, prest : and then the 

King 
Spake to me, being nearest, 'Perci- 

vale,' 
(Because the hall was all in tumult — 

some 
Vowing, and some protesting), ' what 

is this % ' 

" O brother, when I told him what 

had chanced, 
My sister's vision, and the rest, his 

face 
Darken'd, as I have seen it more than 

once, 
When some brave deed seem'd to be 

done in vain, 
Darken ; and ' Woe is me, my knights,' 

he cried, 
' Had I been here, ye had not sworn 

the vow.' 
Bold was mine answer, ' Had thyself 

been here, 
My King, thou wouldst have sworn/ 

' Yea, yea,' said he, 
' Art thou so bold and hast not seen 

the Grail 1 ' 

" ' Nay, lord, I heard the sound, 1 
saw the light, 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



319 



But since I did not see the Holy 

Thing, 
I sware a vow to follow it till I saw.' 

" Then when he ask'd us, knight by 

knight, if any 
Had seen it, all their answers were as 

one : 
'Nay, lord, and therefore have we 

sworn our vows.' 

" ' Lo now,' said Arthur, ' have ye 
seen a cloud ? 
What go ye into the wilderness to 
see? ' 

" Then Galahad on the sudden, and 
in a voice 
Shrilling along the hall to Arthur, 

call'd, 
'But I, Sir Arthur, saw the Holy 

Grail, 
I saw the Holy Grail and heard a cry — 
" Galahad, and O Galahad, follow 
me." ' 

" ' Ah, Galahad, Galahad/ said the 

King, ' for such 
As thou art is the vision, not for 

these. 
Thy holy nun and thou have seen a 

sign — 
Holier is none, my Percivale, than 

she — 
A sign to maim this Order which I 

made. 
But ye, that follow but the leader's 

bell' 
(Brother, the King was hard upon his 

knights) 
' Taliessin is our fullest throat of song, 
And one hath sung and all the dumb 

will sing. 
Lancelot is Lancelot, and hath over- 
borne 
Five knights at once, and every 

younger knight, 
Unproven, holds himself as Lancelot, 
Till overborne by one, he learns — and 

ye, 

What are ye ? Galahads 1 — no, nor 
Percivales ' 



(For thus it pleased the King to range 

me close 
After Sir Galahad); 'nay/ said he, 

' but men 
With strength and will to right the 

wrong'd, of power 
To lay the sudden heads of violence 

flat, 
Knights that in twelve great battles 

splash'd and dyed 
The strong White Horse in his own 

heathen blood — 
But one hath seen, and all the blind 

will see. 
Go, since your vows are sacred, being 

made : 
Yet — for ye know the cries of all my 

realm 
Pass thro' this hall — how often, my 

knights, 
Your places being vacant at my 

side, 
This chance of noble deeds will come 

and go 
Unchallenged, while ye follow wan- 
dering fires 
Lost in the quagmire ! Many of you, 

yea most, 
Return no more : ye think I show my- 
self 
Too dark a prophet: come now, let 

us meet 
The morrow morn once more in one 

full field 
Of gracious pastime, that once more 

the King, 
Before ye leave him for this Quest, 

may count 
The yet-unbroken strength of all his 

knights, 
Rejoicing in that Order which he 

made/ 

" So when the sun broke next from 

under ground, 
All the great table of our Arthur 

closed 
And clash'd in such a tourney and so 

full, 
So many lances broken — never yet 
Had Camelot seen the like, since 

Arthur came; 



320 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



And I myself and Galahad, for a 

strength 
Was in us from the vision, overthrew 
So many knights that all the people 

cried, 
And almost burst the barriers in their 

heat, 
Shouting, ' Sir Galahad and Sir Fer- 

civale ! ' 

"But when the next day brake 

from under ground — 
O brother, had you known our Came- 

lot, 
Built by old kings, age after age, so 

old 
The King himself had fears that it 

would fall, 
So strange, and rich, and dim; for 

where the roofs 
Totter'd toward each other in the 

sky, 
Met foreheads all along the street of 

those 
Who watch'd us pass ; and lower, and 

where the long 
Rich galleries, lady -laden, weigh'd the 

necks 
Of dragons clinging to the crazy walls, 
Thicker than drops from thunder, 

showers of flowers 
Fell as we past; and men and boys 

astride 
On wyvern, lion, dragon, griffin, swan, 
At all the corners, named us each by 

name, 
Calling ' God speed ! ' but in the ways 

below 
The knights and ladies wept, and rich 

and poor 
Wept, and the King himself could 

hardly speak 
For grief, and all in middle street the 

Queen, 
Who rode by Lancelot, wail'd and 

shriek'd aloud, 
'This madness has come on us for our 

sins.' 
So to the Gate of the three Queens we 

came, 
Where Arthur's wars are render'd 

mystically, 



And thence departed every one his 
way. 

" And I was lifted up in heart, and 

thought 
Of all my late-shown prowess in the 

lists, 
How my strong lance had beaten down 

the knights, 
So many and famous names; and 

never yet 
Had heaven appear'd so blue, nor 

earth so green, 
For all my blood danced in me, and I 

knew 
That I should light upon the Holy 

Grail. 

" Thereafter, the dark warning, of 
our King, 

That most of us would follow wander- 
ing fires, 

Came like a driving gloom across my 
mind. 

Then every evil word I had spoken 
once, 

And every evil thought I had thought 
of old, 

And every evil deed I ever did, 

Awoke and cried, ' This Quest is not 
for thee.' 

And lifting up mine eyes, I found my- 
self 

Alone, and in a land of sand and 
thorns, 

And I was thirsty even unto death ; 

And I, too, cried, ' This Quest is not 
for thee.' 



" And on I rode, and when I thought 
my thirst 

Would slay me, saw deep lawns, and 
then a brook, 

With one sharp rapid, where the crisp- 
ing white 

Flay'd ever back upon the sloping 
wave, 

And took both ear and eye ; and o'er 
the brook 

Were apple-trees, and apples by the 
brook 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



321 



Fallen, and on the lawns. ' I will rest 

here/ 
I said, ' 1 am not worthy of the Quest ; ' 
But even while I drank the brook, and 

ate 
The goodly apples, all these things at 

once 
Fell into dust, and I was left alone, 
And thirsting, in a land of sand and 

thorns. 



"And then behold a woman at a 

door 
Spinning ; and fair the house whereby 

she sat, 
And kind the woman's eyes and inno- 
cent, 
And all her bearing gracious ; and she 

rose 
Opening her arms to meet me, as who 

should say, 
'Rest here;' but when I touch'd her, 

lo ! she, too, 
Fell into dust and nothing, and the 

house 
Became no better than a broken shed. 
And in it a dead babe; and also this 
Fell into dust, and I was left alone. 

"And on I rode, and greater was 

my thirst. 
Then flash'd a yellow gleam across 

the world, 
And where it smote the plowshare in 

the field, 
The plowman left his plowing, and 

fell down 
Before it; where it glitter'd on her 

pail, 
The milkmaid left her milking, and 

fell down 
Before it, and I knew not why, but 

thought 
' The sun is rising,' tho' the sun had 

risen. 
Then was I ware of one that on me 

moved 
In golden armor with a crown of gold 
About a casque all jewels ; and his 

horse 
In golden armor jewelFd everywhere : 



And on the splendor came, flashing 

me blind; 
And seem'd to me the Lord of all the 

world, 
Being so huge. But when I thought 

he meant 
To crush me, moving on me, lo ! he, 

too, 
Open'd his arms to embrace me as he 

came, 
And up I went and touch'd him, and 

he, too, 
Fell into dust, and I was left alone 
And wearying in a land of sand and 

thorns. 

" And I rode on and found a mighty 

hill, 
And on the top, a city wall'd : the 

spires 
Prick'd with incredible pinnacles into 

heaven. 
And by the gateway stirr'd a crowd ; 

and these 
Cried to me climbing, ' Welcome, Per- 

civale ! 
Thou mightiest and thou purest 

among men ! ' 
And glad was I and clomb, but found 

at top 
No man, nor any voice. And thence 

I past 
Far thro' a ruinous city, and I saw 
That man had once dwelt there ; but 

there I found 
Only one man of an exceeding age. 
' Where is that goodly company,' said I, 
'That so cried out upon me ? ' and he 

had 
Scarce any voice to answer, and yet 

gasp'd, 
' Whence and what art thou 1 ' and 

even as he spoke 
Fell into dust, and disappear'd, and I 
Was left alone once more, and cried 

in grief, 
'Lo, if I find the Holy Grail itself 
And touch it, it will crumble into 

dust.' 

"And thence 1 dropt into a lowly 
vale, 



322 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



Low as the hill was high, and where 

the vale 
Was lowest, found a chapel, and 

thereby 
A holy hermit in a hermitage, 
To whom I told my phantoms, and he 

said : 

" ' O son, thou hast not true humility, 
The highest virtue, mother of them all ; 
For when the Lord of all things made 

Himself 
Naked of glory for His mortal change, 
" Take thou my robe," she said, " for 

all is thine," 
And all her form shone forth with 

sudden light 
So that the angels were amazed, and 

she 
Follow'd Him down, and like a flying 

star 
Led on the gray-hair'd wisdom of the 

east ; 
But her thou hast not known : for 

what is this 
Thou thoughtest of thy prowess and 

thy sins ? 
Thou hast not lost thyself to save 

thyself 
As Galahad/ When the hermit made 

an end, 
In silver armor suddenly Galahad 

shone 
Before us, and against the chapel door 
Laid lance, and enter'd, and we knelt 

in prayer. 
And there the hermit slaked my burn- 
ing thirst, 
And at the sacring of the mass I saw 
The holy elements alone ; but he, 
' Saw ye no more ? I, Galahad, saw 

the Grail, 
The Holy Grail, descend upon the 

shrine : 
I saw the fiery face as of a child 
That smote itself into the bread, and 

went; 
And hither am I come ; and never yet 
Hath what thy sister taught me first 

to see, 
This Holy Thing, fail'd from my side, 

nor come 



Cover'd, but moving with me night 

and day, 
Fainter by day, but always in the night 
Blood-red, and sliding down the black- 

en'd marsh 
Blood-red, and on the naked mountain 

top 
Blood-red, and in the sleeping mere 

below 
Blood-red. And in the strength of 

this I rode, 
Shattering all evil customs every- 
where, 
And past thro' Pagan realms, and 

made them mine, 
And clash'd with Pagan hordes, and 

bore them down, 
And broke thro' all, and in the strength 

of this 
Come victor. But my time is hard at 

hand, 
And hence I go ; and one will crown 

me king 
Far in the spiritual city; and come 

thou, too, 
For thou shaft see the vision when I 

go.' 

" While thus he spake, his eye, 
dwelling on mine, 

Drew me, with power upon me, till I 
grew 

One with him, to believe as he be- 
lieved. 

Then, when the day began to wane, 
we went. 



"There rose a hill that none but 
man could climb, 

Scarr'd with a hundred wintry water- 
courses — 

Storm at the top, and when we gain'd 
it, storm 

Round us and death; for every mo- 
ment glanced 

His silver arms and gloom'd : so quick 
and thick 

The lightnings here and there to left 
and right 

Struck, till the dry old trunks about 
us, dead, 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



323 



Yea, rotten with a hundred years of 

death, 
Sprang into fire : and at the base we 

found 
On either hand, as far as eye could see, 
A great black swamp and of an evil 

smell, 
Part black, part whiten'd with the 

bones of men, 
Not to be crost, save that some ancient 

king 
Had built a way, where, link'd with 

many a bridge, 
A thousand piers ran into the great 

Sea. 
And Galahad fled along them bridge 

by bridge, 
And every bridge as quickly as he 

crost 
Sprang into fire and vanish'd, tho' I 

yearn'd 
To follow ; and thrice above him all 

the heavens 
Open'd and blazed with thunder such 

as seem'd 
Shoutings of all the sons of God : and 

first 
At once I saw him far on the great 

Sea, 
In silver-shining armor starry-clear ; 
And o'er his head the Holy Vessel 

hung 
Clothed in white samite or a luminous 

cloud. 
And with exceeding swiftness ran the 

boat, 
IS boat it were — I saw not whence it 

came. 
And when the heavens open'd and 

blazed again 
Roaring, I saw him like a silver star — 
And had he set the sail, or had the 



Become a living creature clad with 

wings 1 
And o'er his head the Holy Vessel 

hung 
Redder than any rose, a joy to me, 
For now I knew the veil had been 

withdrawn. 
Then in a moment when they blazed 

again 



Opening, I saw the least of little stars 
Down on the waste, and straight 

beyond the star 
I saw the spiritual city and all her 

spires 
And gateways in a glory like one 

pearl — 
No larger, tho' the goal of all the 

saints — 
Strike from the sea ; and from the 

star there shot 
A rose-red sparkle to the city, and 

there 
Dwelt, and I know it was the Holy 

Grail, 
Which never eyes on earth again 

shall see. 
Then fell the floods of heaven drown- 
ing the deep. 
And how my feet recrost the death- 

ful ridge 
No memory in me lives ; but that I 

touch'd 
The chapel-doors at dawn I know; 

and thence 
Taking my war-horse from the holy 

man, 
Glad that no phantom vext me more, 

return'd 
To whence I came, the gate of Arthur's 

wars." 

" brother/' ask'd Ambrosius, — 

"for in sooth 
These ancient books — and they would 

win thee — teem, 
Only I find not there this Holy Grail, 
With miracles and marvels like to 

these, 
Not all unlike ; which of tentime I read, 
Who read but on my breviary with 

ease, 
Till my head swims ; and then go forth 

and pass 
Down to the little thorpe that lies so 

close, 
And almost plaster'd like a martin's 

nest 
To these old walls — and mingle with 

our folk ; 
And knowing every honest face of 

theirs 



324 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



As well as ever shepherd knew his 

sheep, 
And every homely secret in their 

hearts, 
Delight myself with gossip and old 

wives, 
And ills and aches, and teethings, 

lyings-in, 
And mirthful sayings, children of the 

place, 
That have no meaning half a league 

away : 
Or lulling random squabbles when 

they rise, 
Chafferings and chatterings at the 

market-cross, 
Rejoice, small man, in this small world 

of mine, 
Yea, even in their hens and in their 

eggs — 
brother, saving this Sir Galahad, 
Came ye on none but phantoms in 

your quest, 
No man, no woman ? " 

Then Sir Percivale : 
" All men, to one so bound by such a 

vow, 
And women were as phantoms. O, 

my brother, 
Why wilt thou shame me to confess 

to thee 
How far I falter'd from my quest and 

vow? 
For after I had lain so many nights, 
A bedmate of the snail and eft and 

snake, 
In grass and burdock, I was changed 

to wan 
And meagre, and the vision had not 

come; 
And then I chanced upon a goodly 

town 
With one great dwelling in the middle 

of it; 
Thither I made, and there was I dis- 

arm'd 
By maidens each as fair as any flower : 
But when they led me into hall, be- 
hold, 
The Princess of that castle was the 

one, 



Brother, and that one only, who had 

ever 
Made my heart leap; for when I 

moved of old 
A slender page about her father's hall, 
And she a slender maiden, all my 

heart 
Went after her with longing : yet we 

twain 
Had never kiss'd a kiss, or vow'd a 

vow. 
And now I came upon her once again. 
And one had wedded her, and he was 

dead, 
And all his land and wealth and state 

were hers. 
And while I tarried, every day she 

set 
A banquet richer than the day before 
By me; for all her longing and her 

will 
Was toward me as of old; till one 

fair morn, 
I walking to and fro beside a stream 
That flash'd across her orchard under- 
neath 
Her castle-walls, she stole upon my 

walk, 
And calling me the greatest of all 

knights, 
Embraced me, and so kiss'd me the 

first time, 
And gave herself and all her wealth 

to me. 
Then I remember'd Arthur's warning 

word, 
That most of us would follow wan- 
dering fires, 
And the Quest faded in my heart. 

Anon, 
The heads ef all her people drew to 

me, 
With supplication both of knees and 

tongue : 
' We have heard of thee : thou art 

our greatest knight, 
Our Lady says it, and we well believe : 
Wed thou our Lady, and rule over us, 
And thou shalt be as Arthur in our 

land.' 
O me, my brother ! but one night my 

vow 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



325 



Burnt me within, so that I rose and 

fled, 
But wail'd and wept, and hated mine 

own self, 
And ev'n the Holy Quest, and all but 

her; 
Then after I was join'd with Galahad 
Cared not for her, nor anything upon 

earth." 

Then said the monk, "Poor men, 

when yule is cold, 
Must be content to sit by little fires. 
And this am I, so that ye care for me 
Ever so little; yea, and blest be 

Heaven 
That brought thee here to this poor 

house of ours 
Where all the brethren are so hard, 

to warm 
My cold heart with a friend : but O 

the pity 
To find thine own first love once 

more — to hold, 
Hold her a wealthy bride within thine 

arms, 
Or all but hold, and then — cast her 

aside, 
Foregoing all her sweetness, like a 

weed. 
For we that want the warmth of 

double life, 
We that are plagued with dreams of 

something sweet 
Beyond all sweetness in a life so 

rich, — 
Ah, blessed Lord, I speak too earthly- 
wise, 
Seeing I never stray'd beyond the cell, 
But live like an old badger in his 

earth, 
With earth about him everywhere, 

despite 
All fast and penance. Saw ye none 

beside, 
None of your knights ? " 

" Yea so," said Percivale : 
"One night my pathway swerving 

east, I saw 
The pelican on the casque of our Sir 

Bors 



All in the middle of the rising moon: 
And toward him spurred, and hail'd 

him, and he me, 
And each made joy of either; then 

he ask'd, 
' Where is he 1 hast thou seen him — 

Lancelot ? — Once/ 
Said good Sir Bors, ' he dash'd across 

me — mad, 
And maddening what he rode: and 

when I cried, 
" Ridest thou then so hotly on a quest 
So holy," Lancelot shouted, " Stay 

me not ! 
I have been the sluggard, and I ride 

apace, 
For now there is a lion in the way." 
So vanish'd.' 



" Then Sir Bors had ridden on 

Softly, and sorrowing for our Lan- 
celot, 

Because his former madness, once the 
talk 

And scandal of our table, had re- 
turn'd ; 

For Lancelot's kith and kin so wor- 
ship him 

That ill to him is ill to them ; to Bors 

Beyond the rest: he well had been 
content 

Not to have seen, so Lancelot might 
have seen, 

The Holy Cup of healing; and, indeed, 

Being so clouded with his grief and 
love, 

Small heart was his after the Holy 
Quest : 

If God would send the vision, well : 
if not, 

The Quest and he were in the hands 
of Heaven. 



" And then, with small adventure 

met, Sir Bors 
Rode to the loneliest tract of all the 

realm, 
And found a people there among 

their crags, 
Our race and blood, a remnant that 

were left 



326 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



Paynim amid their circles, and the 

stones 
They pitch up straight to heaven : 

and their wise men 
Were strong in that old magic which 

can trace 
The wandering of the stars, and 

scoff d at him 
And this high Quest as at a simple 

thing : 
Told him he f ollow'd — almost Ar- 
thur's words — 
A mocking fire : ' what other fire than 

he, 
Whereby the blood beats, and the 

blossom blows, 
And the sea rolls, and all the world is 

warm'd 1 ' 
And when his answer chafed them, 

the rough crowd, 
Hearing he had a difference with 

their priests, 
Seized him, and bound and plunged 

him into a cell 
Of great piled stones ; and lying 

bounden there 
In darkness thro' innumerable 

hours 
He heard the hollow-ringing heavens 

sweep 
Over him till by miracle — what 

else? — 
Heavy as it was, a great stone slipt 

and fell, 
Such as no wind could move : and 

thro 1 the gap 
Glimmer'd the streaming scud: then 

came a night 
Still as the day was loud; and thro' 

the gap 
The seven clear stars of Arthur's 

Table Round — 
For, brother, so one night, because 

they roll 
Thro' such a round in heaven, we 

named the stars, 
Rejoicing in ourselves and in our 

King — 
And these, like bright eyes of familiar 

friends, 
In on him shone : ' And then to me, 

to me/ 



Said good Sir Bors, ' beyond all hopes 

of mine, 
Who scarce had pray'd or ask'd it for 

myself — 
Across the seven clear stars — O 

grace to me — 
In color like the fingers of a hand 
Before a burning taper, the sweet 

Grail 
Glided and past,and close upon itpeal'd 
A sharp quick thunder.' Afterwards, 

a maid, 
Who kept our holy faith among her 

kin 
In secret, entering, loosed and let him 

go." 

To whom the monk: "And I re- 
member now 

That pelican on the casque : Sir Bors 
it was 

Who spake so low and sadly at our 
board ; 

And mighty reverent at our grace 
was he : 

A square-set man and honest ; and his 
eyes, 

An out-door sign of all the warmth 
within, 

Smiled with his lips — a smile beneath 
a cloud, 

But heaven had meant it for a sunny 
one : 

Ay, ay, Sir Bors, who else ? But 
when ye reach'd 

The city, found ye all your knights 
return'd, 

Or was there sooth in Arthur's proph- 
ecy, 

Tell me, and what said each, and 
what the King % " 

Then answer'd Percivale-* "And 

that can I, 
Brother, and truly; since the living 

words 
Of so great men as Lancelot and our 

King 
Pass not from door to door and out 

again, 
But sit within the house. 0, when we 

reach'd 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



327 



The city, our horses stumbling as 
they trode 

On heaps of ruin, hornless unicorns, 

Crack'd basilisks, and splinter'd cock- 
atrices, 

And shatter'd talbots, which had left 
the stones 

Raw, that they fell from, brought us 
to the hall. 



" And there sat Arthur on the da'is- 

throne, 
And those that had gone out upon the 

Quest, 
"Wasted and worn, and but a tithe of 

them, 
And those that had not, stood before 

the King, 
Who, when he saw me, rose, and bade 

me hail, 
Saying, 'A welfare in thine eye re- 
proves 
Our fear of some disastrous chance 

for thee 
On hill, or plain, at sea, or flooding 

ford. 
So fierce a gale made havoc here of 

late 
Among the strange devices of our 

kings ; 
Yea, shook this newer, stronger hall 

of ours, 
And from the statue Merlin moulded 

for us 
Half-wrench'd a golden wing; but 

now — the Quest, 
This vision — hast thou seen the Holy 

Cup, 
That Joseph brought of old to Glas- 
tonbury % " 



"So when I told him all thyself 
hast heard, 

Ambrosius, and my fresh but fixt re- 
solve 

To pass away into the quiet life, 

He answer'd not, but, sharply turn- 
ing, ask'd 

Of Gawain, ' Gawain, was this Quest 
for thee ? ' 



" ' Nay, lord/ said Gawain, ' not for 

such as I. 
Therefore I communed with a saintly 

man, 
Who made me sure the Quest was not 

for me ; 
For I was much awearied of the 

Quest : 
But found a silk pavilion in a field, 
And merry maidens in it; and then 

this gale 
Tore my pavilion from the tenting- 

pin, 
And blew my merry maidens all 

about 
With all discomfort ; yea, and but for 

this, 
My twelvemonth and a day were 

pleasant to me.' 

" He ceased ; and Arthur turn'd to 

whom at first 
He saw not, for Sir Bors, on entering, 

push'd 
Athwart the throng to Lancelot, 

caught his hand, 
Held it, and there, half-hidden by him, 

stood, 
Until the King espied him, saying to 

him, 
' Hail, Bors ! if ever loyal man and 

true 
Could see it, thou hast seen the Grail ; ' 

and Bors, 
' Ask me not, for I may not speak of 

it: 
I saw it ; ' and the tears were in his 

eyes. 

"Then there remain'd but Lance- 
lot, for the rest 

Spake but of sundry perils in the 
storm ; 

Perhaps, like him of Cana in Holy 
Writ, 

Our Arthur kept his best until the 
last; 

'Thou, too, my Lancelot,' ask'd the 
King, ' my friend, 

Our mightiest, hath this Quest avail'd 
for thee ? ' 



328 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



" * Our mightiest ! ' answer'd Lance- 
lot, with a groan ; 
' O King ! ' — and when he paused, 

methought I spied 
A dying fire of madness in his eyes — 
' King, my friend, if friend of thine 

I he, 
Happier are those that welter in their 

sin, 
Swine in the mud, that cannot see for 

slime, 
Slime of the ditch : but in me lived a 

sin 
So strange, of such a kind, that all of 

pure, 
Noble, and knightly in me twined 

and clung 
Round that one sin, until the whole- 
some flower 
And poisonous grew together, each as 

each, 
Not to be pluck'd asunder ; and when 

thy knights » 
Sware, I sware with them only in the 

hope 
That could I touch or see the Holy 

Grail 
They might be pluck'd asunder. Then 

I spake 
To one most holy saint, who wept and 

said, 
That save they could be pluck'd 

asunder, all 
My quest were but in vain ; to whom 

I vow'd 
That I would work according as he 

will'd. 
And forth I went, and while I yearn'd 

and strove 
To tear the twain asunder in my' 

heart, 
My madness came upon me as of old, 
And whipt me into waste fields far 

away; 
There was 1 beaten down by little 

men, 
Mean knights, to whom the moving 

of my sword 
And shadow of my spear had been 

enow 
To scare them from me once ; and 

then I came 



All in my folly to the naked shore, 
Wide flats, where nothing but coarse 

grasses grew ; 
But such a blast, my King, began to 

blow, 
So loud a blast along the shore and 

sea, 
Ye could not hear the waters for the 

blast, 
Tho' heapt in mounds and ridges all 

the sea 
Drove like a cataract, and all the sand 
Swept like a river, and the clouded 

heavens 
Were shaken with the motion and the 

sound. 
And blackening in the sea-foam 

sway'd a boat, 
Half-swallow'd in it, anchor'd with a 

chain ; 
And in my madness to myself I said, 
" I will embark and I will lose myself, 
And in the great sea wash away my 

sin." 
I burst the chain, I sprang into the 

boat. 
Seven days I drove along the dreary 

deep, 
And with me drove the moon and all 

the stars ; 
And the wind fell, and on the seventh 

night 
I heard the shingle grinding in the 

surge, 
And felt the boat shock earth, and 

looking up, 
Behold, the enchanted towers of Car- 

bonek, 
A castle like a rock upon a rock, 
With chasm-like portals open to the 

sea, 
And steps that met the breaker ! there 

was none 
Stood near it but a lion on each side 
That kept the entry, and the moon 

was full. 
Then from the boat I leapt, and up 

the stairs. 
There drew my sword. With sudden- 
flaring manes 
Those two great beasts rose upright 

like a man. 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



329 



Each gript a shoulder, and I stood 

between ; 
And, when I would have smitten 

them, heard a voice, 
"Doubt not, go forward; if thou 

doubt, the beasts 
Will tear thee piecemeal." Then with 

violence 
The sword was dash'd from out my 

hand, and fell. 
And up into the sounding hall I past ; 
But nothing in the sounding hall I 

saw, 
No bench nor table, painting on the 

wall 
Or shield of knight ; only the rounded 

moon 
Thro' the tall oriel on the rolling sea. 
But always in the quiet house I heard, 
Clear as a lark, high o'er me as a lark, 
A sweet voice singing in the topmost 

tower 
To the eastward : up I climb'd a thou- 
sand steps 
With pain : as in a dream I seem'd to 

climb 
For ever : at the last I reach'd a door, 
A light was in the crannies, and I 

heard. 
" Glory and joy and honor to our 

Lord 
And to the Holy Vessel of the Grail." 
Then in my madness I essay'd the 

door; 
It gave ; and thro' a stormy glare, a 

heat 
As from a seventimes-heated furnace, 

I, 
Blasted and burnt, and blinded as I 

was, 
With such a fierceness that I swoon'd 

away — 
O, yet methought I saw the Holy 

Grail, 
All pal I'd in crimson samite, and 

around 
Great angels, awful shapes, and wings 

and eyes. 
And but for all my madness and my 

sin, 
And then my swooning, I had sworn 

I saw 



That which I saw ; but what I saw 

was veil'd 
And cover'd ; and this Quest was not 

for me.' 

" So speaking, and here ceasing, 

Lancelot left 
The hall long silent, till Sir Gawain 

— "ay, 
Brother, I need not tell thee foolish 

words, — 
A reckless and irreverent knight was 

he, 
Now bolden'd by the silence of his 

King, — 
Well, I tell thee: 'O King, my 

liege/ he said, 
' Hath Gawain fail'd in any quest of 

thine ? 
When have I stinted stroke in fough- 

ten field % 
But as for thine, my good friend 

Percivale, 
Thy holy nun and thou have driven 

men mad, 
Yea, made our mightiest madder than 

our least. 
But by mine eyes and by mine ears I 

swear, 
I will be deafer than the blue-eyed 

cat, 
And thrice as blind as any noonday 

owl, 
To holy virgins in their ecstasies, 
Henceforward." 

" ' Deafer,' said the blameless 

King, 
' Gawain, and blinder unto holy 

things 
Hope not to make thyself by idle 

vows, 
Being too blind to have desire to see. 
But if indeed there came a sign from 

heaven, 
Blessed are Bors, Lancelot and Per- 
civale, 
For these have seen according to 

their sight. 
For every fiery prophet in old times, 
And all the sacred madness of the 

bard, 



330 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



When God make music thro' them, 

could but speak 
His music by the framework and the 

chord ; 
And as ye saw it ye have spoken 

truth. 

" ' Nay — but thou errest, Lancelot : 

never yet 
Could all of true and noble in knight 

and man 
Twine round one sin, whatever it 

might be, 
With such a closeness, but apart there 

grew, 
Save that he were the swine thou 

spakest of, 
Some root of knighthood and pure 

nobleness ; 
Whereto see thou, that it may bear 

its flower. 

" ' And spake I not too truly, O my 

knights % 
Was I too dark a prophet when I said 
To those who went upon the Holy 

Quest, 
That most of them would follow 

wandering fires, 
Lost in the quagmire ? — lost to me 

and gone, 
And left me gazing at a barren board, 
And a lean Order — scarce return'd a 

tithe — 
And out of those to whom the vision 

came 
My greatest hardly will believe he 

saw; 
Another hath beheld it afar off, 
And leaving human wrongs to right 

themselves, 
Cares but to pass into the silent life. 
And one hath had the vision face to 

face, 
And now his chair desires him here 

in vain, 
However they may crown him other- 
where. 

" ' And some among you held, that 
if the King 
Had seen the sight he would have 
sworn the vow : 



Not easily, seeing that the King must 

guard 
That which he rules, and is but as the 

hind 
To whom a space of land is given to 

plow. 
Who may not wander from the allot- 
ted field 
Before his work be done ; but, being 

done, 
Let visions of the night or of the 

day 
Come, as they will; and many a time 

they come, 
Until this earth he walks on seems 

not earth, 
This light that strikes his eyeball is 

not light, 
This air that smites his forehead is 

not air 
But vision — yea, his very hand and 

foot — 
In moments when he feels he cannot 

die, 
And knows himself no vision to him- 
self, 
Nor the high God a vision, nor that 

One 
Who rose again : ye have seen what 

ye have seen.' 

" So spake the King : I knew not all 
he meant." 



PELLEAS AND ETTAREE. 

King Arthur made new knights to 

fill the gap 
Left by the Holy Quest; and as he 

sat 
In the hall at old Caerleon, the high 

doors 
Were softly sunder'd, and thro' these 

a youth, 
Pelleas, and the sweet smell of the 

fields 
Past, and the sunshine came along 

with him. 

"Make me thy knight, because I 
know, Sir King, 






PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



331 



All that belongs to knighthood, and I 

love." 
Such was his cry : for having heard 

the King- 
Had let proclaim a tournament — the 

prize 
A golden circlet and a knightly sword, 
Full fain had Pelleas for his lady 

won 
The golden circlet, for himself the 

sword : 
And there were those who knew him 

near the King, 
And promised for him : and Arthur 

made him knight. 

And this new knight, Sir Pelleas of 

the isles — 
But lately come to his inheritance, 
And lord of many a barren isle was 

he — 
Hiding at noon, a day or twain be- 
fore, 
Across the forest call'd of Dean, to 

find 
Caerleon and the King, had felt the 

sun 
Beat like a strong knight on his 

helm, and reel'd 
Almost to falling from his horse ; but 

saw 
Kear him a mound of even-sloping 

side, 
Whereon a hundred stately beeches 

grew, 
And here and there great hollies under 

them ; 
But for a mile all round was open 

space, 
And fern and heath : and slowly Pel- 
leas drew 
To that dim day, then binding his 

good horse 
To a tree, cast himself down ; and as 

he lay 
At random looking over the brown 

earth 
Thro' that green-glooming twilight of 

the grove, 
It seem'd to Pelleas that the fern 

without 
Burnt as a living fire of emeralds, 



So that his eyes were dazzled looking 
at it. 

Then o'er it crost the dimness of a 
cloud 

Floating, and once the shadow of a 
bird 

Flying, and then a fawn ; and his 
eyes closed. 

And since he loved all maidens, but 
no maid 

In special, half-awake he whisper'd, 
" Where 1 

O where ? I love thee, tho' I know 
thee not. 

For fair thou art and pure as Guine- 
vere, 

And I will make thee with my spear 
and sword 

As famous — my Queen my Guine- 
vere, 

For I will be thine Arthur when we 
meet." 



Suddenly waken'd with a sound of 

talk 
And laughter at the limit of the Avood, 
And glancing thro' the hoary boles, 

he saw, 
Strange as to some old prophet might 

have seem'd 
A vision hovering on a sea of fire, 
Damsels in divers colors like the cloud 
Of sunset and sunrise, and all of them 
On horses, and the horses richly trapt 
Breast-high in that bright line of 

bracken stood : 
And all the damsels talk'd confusedly, 
And one was pointing this way, and 

one that, 
Because the way was lost. 



And Pelleas rose, 
And loosed his horse, and led him to 

the light. 
There she that seem'd the chief among 

them said, 
" In happy time behold our pilot-star ! 
Youth, we are damsels-errant, and we 

ride, 
Arm'd as ye see, to tilt against the 

knights 



332 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



There at Caerleon, but have lost our 

way: 
To right 1 to left ? straight forward 1 

back again ? 
Which ? tell us quickly." 

And Pelleas gazing thought, 
" Is Guinevere herself so beautiful ? " 
For large her violet eyes look'd, and 

her bloom 
A rosy dawn kindled in stainless 

heavens, 
And round her limbs, mature in 

womanhood; 
And slender was her hand and small 

her shape ; 
Andbut for those large eyes, the haunts 

of scorn, 
She might have seem'd a toy to trifle 

with, 
And pass and care no more. But 

while he gazed 
The beauty of her flesh abash' d the 

boy, 
As tho' it were the beauty of her soul : 
For as the base man, judging of the 

good, 
Puts his own baseness in him by 

default 
Of will and nature, so did Pelleas lend 
All the young beauty of his own soul 

to hers, 
Believing her; and when she spake 

to him, 
Stammer'd, and could not make her a 

reply. 
For out of the waste islands had he 

come, 
Where saving his own sisters he had 

known 
Scarce any but the women of his isles, 
Rough wives, that laugh'd and 

scream'd against the gulls, 
Makers of nets, and living from the 

sea. 

Then with a slow smile turn'd the 

lady round 
And look'd upon her people ; and as 

when 
A stone is flung into some sleeping 

tarn, 



The circle widens till it lip the marge, 
Spread the slow smile thro' all her 

company. 
Three knights were thereamong; and 

they too smiled, 
Scorning him ; for the lady was 

Ettarre, 
And she was a great lady in her land. 

Again she said, " wild and of the 

woods, 
Knowest thou not the fashion of our 

speech ? 
Or have the Heavens but given thee 

a fair face, 
Lacking a tongue 1 " 

" O damsel," answer'd he, 
" I woke from dreams ; and coming 

out of gloom 
Was dazzled by the sudden light, and 

crave 
Pardon : but will ye to Caerleon ? I 
Go likewise : shall I lead you to the 

King'?" 

"Lead then," she said; and thro' 

the woods they went. 
And while they rode, the meaning in 

his eyes, 
His tenderness of manner, and chaste 

awe, 
His broken utterances and bashful- 

ness, 
Were all a burthen to her, and in her 

heart 
She mutter'd, "I have lighted on a 

fool, 
Raw, yet so stale ! " But since her 

mind was bent 
On hearing, after trumpet blown, her 

name 
And title, " Queen of Beauty," in the 

lists 
Cried — and beholding him so strong, 

she thought 
That peradventure he will fight for 

me, 
And win the circlet : therefore flatter'd 

him, 
Being so gracious, that he wellnigh 

deem'd 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



333 



His wish by hers was echo'd ; and her 

knights 
And all her damsels too were gracious 

to him, 
For she was a great lady. 

And when they reach'd 
Caerleon, ere they past to lodging, 

she, 
Taking his hand, " O the strong hand," 

she said, 
" See ! look at mine ! but wilt thou 

tight for me, 
And win me this fine circlet, Pelleas, 
That I may love thee ? " 

Then his helpless heart 
Leapt, and he cried, " Ay ! wilt thou 

if I win ? " 
"Ay, that will I," she answer'd, and 

she laugh'd, 
And straitly nipt the hand, and flung 

it from her ; 
Then glanced askew at those three 

knights of hers, 
Till all her ladies laugh'd along with 

her. 

" O happy world," thought Pelleas, 

"all, meseems, 
Are happy ; I the happiest of them 

all." 
Nor slept that night for pleasure in 

his blood, 
And green wood-ways, and eyes among 

the leaves ; 
Then being on the morrow knighted, 

sware 
To love one only. And as he came 

away, 
The men who met him rounded on 

their heels 
And wonder'd after him, because his 

face 
Shone like the countenance of a priest 

of old 
Against the flame about a sacrifice 
Kindled by fire from heaven : so glad 

was he. 

Then Arthur made vast banquets, 

and strange knights 



From the four winds came in : and 
each one sat, 

Tho' served with choice from air, land, 
stream, and sea, 

Oft in mid-banquet measuring with 
his eyes 

His neighbor's make and might : and 
Pelleas look'd 

Noble among the noble, for he dream'd 

His lady loved him, and he knew him- 
self 

Loved of the King : and him his new- 
made knight 

Worshipt, whose lightest whisper 
moved him more 

Than all the ranged reasons of the 
world. 

Then blush'd and brake the morn- 
ing of the jousts, 
And this was call'd " The Tournament 

of Youth : " 
For Arthur, loving his young knight, 

withheld 
His older and his mightier from the 

lists, 
That Pelleas might obtain his lady's 

love, 
According to her promise, and remain 
Lord of the tourney. And Arthur 

had the jousts 
Down in the flat field by the shore of 

Usk 
Holden : the gilded parapets were 

crown'd 
With faces, and the great tower fill'd 

with eyes 
Up to the summit, and the trumpets 

blew. 
There all day long Sir Pelleas kept 

the field 
With honor : so by that strong hand 

of his 
The sword and golden circlet were 

achieved. 

Then rang the shout his lady loved : 

the heat 
Of pride and glory fired her face ; her 

eye 
Sparkled ; she caught the circlet from 

his lance, 



334 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



And there before the people crown'd 

herself : 
So for the last time she was gracious 

to him. 



Then at Caerleon for a space — her 

look 
Bright for all others, cloudier on her 

knight — 
Linger'd Ettarre : and seeing Pelleas 

droop, 
Said Guinevere, " We marvel at thee 

much, 

damsel, wearing this unsunny face 
To him who won thee glory ! " And 

she said, 

"Bad ye not held your Lancelot in 
your bower, 

My Queen, he had not won." Where- 
at the Queen, 

As one whose foot is bitten by an ant, 

Glanced down upon her, turn'd and 
went her way. 

But after, when her damsels, and 

herself, 
And those three knights all set their 

faces home, 
Sir Pelleas follow'd. She that saw 

him cried, 
"Damsels — and yet I should be 

shamed to say it — 

1 cannot bide Sir Baby. Keep him back 
Among yourselves. Would rather 

that we had 
Some rough old knight who knew the 

worldly way, 
Albeit grizzlier than a bear, to ride 
And jest with : take him to you, keep 

him off, 
And pamper him with papmeat, if ye 

will, 
Old milky fables of the wolf and sheep, 
Such as the wholesome mothers tell 

their boys. 
Nay, should ye try him with a merry 

one 
To find his mettle, good : and if he fly 

us, 
Small matter! let him." This her 

damsels heard, 



And mindful of her small and cruel 

hand, 
They, closing round him thro' the 

journey home, 
Acted her hest, and always from her 

side 
Restrain'd him with all manner of 

device, 
So that he could not come to speech 

with her. 
And when she gain'd her castle, up- 

sprang the bridge, 
Down rang the grate of iron thro' the 

groove, 
And he was left alone in open field. 

"These be the ways of ladies," 

Pelleas thought, 
" To those who love them, trials of 

our faith. 
Yea, let her prove me to the uttermost, 
For loyal to the uttermost am I." 
So made his moan ; and, darkness 

falling, sought 
A priory not far off, there lodged, but 

rose 
With morning every day, and, moist 

or dry, 
Full-arm 'd upon his charger all day 

long 
Sat by the walls, and no one open'd to 

him. 

And this persistence turn'd her 

scorn to wrath. 
Then calling her three knights, she 

charged them, " Out ! 
And drive him from the walls." And 

out they came, 
But Pelleas overthrew them as they 

dash'd 
Against him one by one ; and these 

return'd, 
But still he kept his watch beneath 

the wall. 

Thereon her wrath became a hate ; 

and once, 
A week beyond, while walking on the 

walls 
With her three knights, she pointed 

downward, " Look, 






PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



335 



He haunts me — I cannot breathe — 

besieges me; 
Down ! strike him ! put my hate into 

your strokes, 
And drive him from my walls." And 

down they went, 
And Pelleas overthrew them one by 

one; 
And from the tower above him cried 

Ettarre, 
" Bind him, and bring him in." 

He heard her voice ; 

Then let the strong hand, which had 
overthrown 

Her minion-knights, by those he over- 
threw 

Be bounden straight, and so they 
brought him in. 

Then when he came before Ettarre, 

the sight 
( )f her rich beauty made him at one 

glance 
More bondsman in his heart than in 

his bonds. 
Yet with good cheer he spake, " Be- 
hold me, Lady, 
A prisoner, and the vassal of thy will ; 
And if thou keep me in thy donjon here, 
Content am I so that I see thy face 
But once a day : for I have sworn my 

vows, 
And thou hast given thy promise, and 

I know 
That all these pains are trials of my 

faith, 
And that thyself, when thou hast seen 

me strain'd 
And sifted to the utmost, wilt at length 
Yield me thy love and know me for 

thy knight." 

Then she began to rail so bitterly, 
With all her damsels, he was stricken 

mute ; 
But when she mock'd his vows and 

the great Kim-. 
Lighted on words : " For pity of thine 

own self, 
Peace, Lady, peace : is he not thine 

and mine % " 



" Thou fool," she said, " I never heard 

his voice 
But long'd to break away. Unbind 

him now, 
And thrust him out of doors ; for save 

he be 
Fool to the midmost marrow of his 

bones, 
He will return no more." And those, 

her three, 
Laugh'd, and unbound, and thrust him 

from the gate. 

And after this, a week beyond, again 
She calPd them, saying, " There he 

watches yet, 
There like a dog before his master's 

door! 
Kick'd, he returns : do ye not hate 

him, ye ? 
Ye know yourselves : how can ye bide 

at peace, 
Affronted with his fulsome innocence 1 
Are ye but creatures of the board and 

bed, 
No men to strike ? Fall on him all at 

once, 
And if ye slay him I reck not : if ye fail, 
Give ye the slave mine order to be 

bound, 
Bind him as heretofore, and bring him 

in: 
It may be ye shall slay him in his 

bonds." 



She spake ; and at her will they 

couch'd their spears, 
Three against one : and Gawain pass- 
ing by, 
Bound upon solitary adventure, saw 
Low down beneath the shadow of 

those towers 
A villany, three to one : and thro' his 

heart 
The fire of honor and all noble deeds 
Flash'd, and he call'd, " I strike upon 

thy side — 
The caitiffs ! " " Nay," said Pelleas, 

"but forbear; 
He needs no aid who doth his lady's 

will." 



336 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



So Gawain, looking at the villany 

done, 
Forebore, but in his heat and eagerness 
Trembled and quiver'd, as the dog, 

withheld 
A moment from the vermin that he 

sees 
Before him, shivers, ere he springs 

and kills. 

And Pelleas overthrew them, one to 
three ; 

And they rose up, and bound, and 
brought him in. 

Then first her anger, leaving Pelleas, 
burn'd 

Pull on her knights in many an evil 
name 

Of craven, weakling, and thrice-beaten 
hound : 

" Yet, take him, ye that scarce are fit 
to touch, 

Par less to bind, your victor, and 
thrust him out, 

And let who will release him from his 
bonds. 

And if he comes again " — there she 
brake short ; 

And Pelleas answer'd, " Lady, for in- 
deed 

I loved you and I deem'd you beauti- 
ful, 

I cannot brook to see your beauty 
marr'd 

Thro' evil spite : and if ye love me not, 

I cannot bear to dream you so for- 
sworn : 

I had liefer ye were worthy of my 
love, 

Than to be loved again of you — fare- 
well; 

And tho' ye kill my hope, not yet my 
love, 

Vex not yourself : ye will not see me 
more." 

While thus he spake, she gazed 

upon the man 
Of princely bearing, tho' in bonds, 

and thought, 
" Why have I push'd him from me 1 

this man loves, 



If love there be : yet him I loved not. 

Why? 
I deem'd him fool 1 yea, so ? or that 

in him 
A something — was it nobler than my- 
self ? — 
Seem'd my reproach 1 He is not of 

my kind. 
He could not love me, did he know me 

well. 
Nay, let him go — and quickly." And 

her knights 
Laugh'd not, but thrust him bounden 

out of door. 

Porth sprang Gawain, and loosed 

him from his bonds, 
And flung them o'er the walls; and 

afterward, 
Shaking his hands, as from a lazar's 

rag, 
" Faith of my body," he said, " and 

art thou not — 
Yea thou art he, whom late our Arthur 

made 
Knight of his table ; yea and he that 

won 
The circlet 1 wherefore hast thou so 

defamed 
Thy brotherhood in me and all the 

rest, 
As let these caitiffs on thee work their 

will 1 " 

And Pelleas answer'd, " 0, their 

wills are hers 
For whom I won the circlet; and 

mine, hers, 
Thus to be bounden, so to see her 

face, 
Marr'd tho' it be with spite and mock- 
ery now, 
Other than when I found her in the 

woods; 
And tho' she hath me bounden but in 

spite, 
And all to flout me, when they bring 

me in, 
Let me be bounden, I shall see her 

face ; 
Else must I die thro' mine unhappi- 

ness." 






PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



337 



And Gawain answer'd kindly tho' 

in scorn, 
" Why, let my lady bind me if she 

will, 
And let ray lady beat me if she will : 
But an she send her delegate to thrall 
These fighting hands of mine — Christ 

kill me then 
But I will slice him handless by the 

wri&t, 
And let my lady sear the stump for 

him, 
Howl as he may. But hold me for 

your friend : 
Come, ye know nothing : here I pledge 

my troth, 
Yea, by the honor of the Table Round, 
I will be leal to thee and work thy 

work, 
And tame thy jailing princess to 

thine hand. 
Lend me thine horse and arms, and I 

will say 
That I have slain thee. She will let 

me in 
To hear the manner of thy fight and 

fall; 
Then, when I come within her coun- 
sels, then 
From prime to vespers will I chant 

thy praise 
As prowest knight and truest lover, 

more 
Than any have sung thee living, till 

she long 
To have thee back in lusty life again, 
Not to be bound, save by white bonds 

and warm, 
Dearer than freedom. Wherefore now 

thy horse 
And armor : let me go : be comforted : 
Give me three days to melt her fancy, 

and hope 
The third night hence will bring thee 

news of gold." 

Then Pelleas lent his horse and all 

his arms, 
Saving the goodly sword, his prize, 

and took 
Gawain's, and said, " Betray me not, 

but help — 



Art thou not he whom men call light- 
of-love ? " 

" Ay," said Gawain, " for women be 
so light." 

Then bounded forward to the castle 
walls, 

And raised a bugle hanging from his 
neck, 

And winded it, and that so musically 

That all the old echoes hidden in the 
wall 

Rang out like hollow woods at hunt- 
ing-tide. 

Up ran a score of damsels to the 

tower ; 
" Avaunt," they cried, " our lady loves 

thee not." 
But Gawain lifting up his vizor said, 
" Gaw r ain am I, Gawain of Arthur's 

court, 
And I have slain this Pelleas whom 

ye hate : 
Behold his horse and armor. Open 

gates, 
And I will make you merry." 

And down they ran, 
Her damsels, crying to their lady, 

"Lo! 
Pelleas is dead — he told us — he that 

hath 
His horse and armor : will ye let him 

in? 
He slew him! Gawain, Gawain of the 

court, 
Sir Gawain — there he waits below the 

wall, 
Blowing his bugle as who should say 

him nay." 

And so, leave given, straight on 
thro' open door 

Rode Gawain, whom she greeted cour- 
teously. 

" Dead, is it so ? " she ask'd. " Ay, 
ay," said he, 

"And oft in dying cried upon your 
name." 

" Pity on him," she answer'd, " a good 
knight, 



338 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



But never let me bide one hour at 

peace." 
" Ay," thought Gawain, " and you be 

fair enow : 
But I to your dead man have given 

my troth, 
That whom ye loathe, him will I make 

you love." 

So those three days, aimless about 

the land, 
Lost in a doubt, Pelleas wandering 
Waited, until the third night brought 

a moon 
With promise of large light on woods 

and ways. 

Hot was the night and silent ; but a 

sound 
Of Gawain ever coming, and this 

lay — 
Which Pelleas had heard sung before 

the Queen, 
And seen her sadden listening — vext 

his heart, 
And marr'd his rest — "A worm 

within the rose." 

"A rose, but one, none other rose 
had I, 

A rose, one rose, and this was won- 
drous fair, 

One rose, a rose that gladden'd earth 
and sky, 

One rose, my rose, that sweeten'd all 
mine air — 

I cared not for the thorns ; the thorns 
were there. 

" One rose, a rose to gather by and 

by, 

One rose, a rose, to gather and to 

wear, 
No rose but one — what other rose 

had I? 
One rose, my rose ; a rose that will 

not die, — 
He dies who loves it, — if the worm 

be there." 

This tender rhyme, and evermore 
the doubt, 



" Why lingers Gawain with his golden 

news ? " 
So shook him that he could not rest, 

but rode 
Ere midnight to her walls, and bound 

his horse 
1 1 Hard by the gates. Wide open were 

the gates, 
And no watch kept; and in thro' 

these he past, 
And heard but his own steps, and his 

own heart 
Beating, for nothing moved but his 

own self, 
And his own shadow. Then he crost 

the court, 
And spied not any light in hall or 

bower, 
But saw the postern portal also wide 
Yawning ; and up a slope of garden, all 
Of roses white and red, and brambles 

mixt 
And overgrowing them, went on, and 

found, 
Here too, all hush'd below the mellow 

moon, 
Save that one rivulet from a tiny cave 
Came lightening downward, and so 

spilt itself 
Among the roses, and was lost again. 

Then was he ware of three pavil- 
ions rear'd 

Above the bushes,gilden-peakt : in one, 

Red after revel, droned her lurdane 
knights 

Slumbering, and their three squires 
across their feet : 

In one, their malice on the placid lip 

Froz'n by sweet sleep, four of her 
damsels lay : 

And in the third, the circlet of the 
jousts 

Bound on her brow, were Gawain and 
Ettarre. 

Back, as a hand that pushes thro 

the leaf 
To find a nest and feels a snake, he 

drew: 
Back, as a coward slinks from what 

he fears 






FELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



339 



To cope with, or a traitor proven, or 

hound 
Beaten, did Pelleas in an utter shame 
Creep with his shadow thro' the court 

again, 
Fingering at his sword-handle until he 

stood 
There on the castle-bridge once more, 

and thought, 
" I will go back, and slay them where 

they lie." 

And so went back, and seeing them 

yet in sleep 
Said, " Ye, that so dishallow the holy 

sleep, 
Your sleep is death," and drew the 

sword, and thought, 
" What ! slay a sleeping knight? the 

King hath bound 
And sworn me to this brotherhood ; " 

again, 
"Alas that ever a knight should be 

so false." 
Then turn'd, and so return'd, and 

groaning laid 
The naked sword athwart their naked 

throats, 
There left it, and them sleeping ; and 

she lay, 
The circlet of the tourney round her 

brows, 
And the sword of the tourney across her 

throat. 

And forth he past, and mounting 

on his horse 
Stared at her towers that, larger than 

themselves 
In their own darkness, throng'd into 

the moon. 
Then crush'd the saddle with his 

thighs, and clench'd 
His hands, and madden'd with himself 

and moan'd : 

" Would they have risen against 

me in their blood 
At the last day 1 I might have an- 

swer'd them 
Even before high God. towers so 

strong, 



Huge, solid, would that even while I 

gaze 
The crack of earthquake shivering to 

your base 
Split you, and Hell burst up your 

harlot roofs 
Bellowing, and charr'd you thro' and 

thro' within, 
Black as the harlot's heart — hollow 

as a skull ! 
Let the fierce east scream thro' your 

eyelet-holes, 
And whirl the dust of harlots round 

and round 
In dung and nettles ! hiss, snake — I 

saw him there — 
Let the fox bark, let the wolf yell. 

Who yells 
Here in the still sweet summer night, 

but I — 
I, the poor Pelleas whom she call'd 

her fool ? 
Fool, beast — he, she, or I? myself 

most fool; 
Beast too, as lacking human wit — 

disgraced, 
Dishonor'd all for trial of true love — 
Love 1 — we be all alike : only the 

King- 
Hath made us fools and liars. O 

noble vows ! 

great and sane and simple race of 

brutes 
That own no lust because they have 

no law ! 
For why should I have loved her to 

my shame 1 

1 loathe her, as I loved her to my 

shame. 
I never loved her, I but lustedfor her — 
Away — " 

He dash'd the rowel into his 
horse, 
And bounded forth and vanish'd thro' 
the night. 

Then she, that felt the cold touch 
on her throat, 
4. waking knew the sword, and turn'd 
herself 



340 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



To Gawain : " Liar, for thou hast not 

slain 
This Pelleas ! here he stood, and might 

have slain 
Me and thyself." And he that tells 

the tale 
Says that her ever-veering f ancyturn'd 
To Pelleas, as the one true knight on 

earth, 
And only lover; and thro' her love 

her life 
Wasted and pined, desiring himin vain. 

But he by wild and way, for half 

the night, 
And over hard and soft, striking the 

sod 
From out the soft, the spark from off 

the hard, 
Rode till the star above the wakening 

sun, 
Beside that tower where Percivale was 

cowl'd, 
Glanced from the rosy forehead of 

the dawn. 
For so the words were flash'd into his 

heart 
He knew not whence or wherefore: 

" O sweet star, 
Pure on the virgin forehead of the 

dawn!" 
And there he would have wept, but 

felt his eyes 
Harder and drier than a fountain 

bed 
In summer : thither came the village 

girls 
And linger'd talking, and they come 

no more 
Till the sweet heavens have fill'd it 

from the heights 
Again with living waters in the change 
Of seasons : hard his eyes ; harder his 

heart 
Seem'd ; but so weary were his limbs, 

that he, 
Gasping, " Of Arthur's hall am I, but 

here, 
Here let me rest and die," cast him- 
self down, 
And gulf 'd his griefs in inmost sleep ; 

so lay, 



Till shaken by a dream, that Gawain 

fired 
The hall of Merlin, and the morning 

star 
Reel'd in the smoke, brake into flame, 

and fell. 

He woke, and being ware of some 
one nigh, 

Sent hands upon him, as to tear him. 
crying, 

" False ! and I held thee pure as Guin- 
evere." 

But Percivale stood near him and 

replied 
" Am I but false as Guinevere is 

pure ? 
Or art thou mazed with dreams °- or 

being one 
Of our free-spoken Table hast not 

heard 
That Lancelot " — there he check'd 

himself and paused. 

Then fared it with Sir Pelleas as 

with one 
Who gets a wound in battle, and the 

sword 
That made it plunges thro' the 

wound again, 
And pricks it deeper : and he shrank 

and wail'd, 
" Is the Queen false ? " and Percivale 

was mute. 
" Have any of our Round Table held 

their vows 1 " 
And Percivale made answer not a 

word. 
" Is the King true ? " " The King ! " 

said Percivale. 
" Why then let men couple at once 

with wolves. 
What ! art thou mad ? 

But Pelleas, leaping up, 
Ran thro' the doors and vaulted on 

his horse 
And fled : small pity upon his horse 

had he, 
Or on himself, or any, and when he 

met 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



341 



A cripple, one that held a hand for 

alms — 
Hunch'd as he was, and like an old 

dwarf -elm 
That turns its back on the sail blast, 

the boy 
Paused not, but overrode him, shout- 
ing, "False, 
And false with Gawain! " and so left 

him bruised 
And batter'd, and fled on, and hill 

and wood 
Went ever streaming by him till the 

gloom, 
That follows on the turning of the 

world, 
Darken'd the common path : he 

twitch'd the reins, 
And made his beast that better knew 

it, swerve 
Now off it and now on ; but when he 

saw 
High up in heaven the hall that Mer- 
lin built, 
Blackening against the dead-green 

stripes of even, 
" Black nest of rats," he groan'd, "ye 

build too high." 

Not long thereafter from the city 

gates 
Issued Sir Lancelot riding airily, 
Warm with a gracious parting from 

the Queen, 
Peace at his heart, and gazing at a 

star 
And marvelling what it was: on 

whom the boy, 
Across the silent seeded meadow- 
grass 
Borne, clash'd : and Lancelot, saying, 

" What name hast thou 
That ridest here so blindly and so 

hard ? " 
"I have no name," he shouted, "a 

scourge am I, 
To lash the treasons of the Table 

Pound." 
"Yea, but thy name?" "I have 

many names," he cried : 
m l am wrath and shame and hate 

and evil fame, 



And like a poisonous wind I pass to 

blast 
And blaze the crime of Lancelot and 

the Queen." 
" First over me," said Lancelot, " shalt 

thou pass." 
"Fight therefore," yell'd the other, 

and either knight 
Drew back a space, and when they 

closed, at once 
The weary steed of Pelleas flounder- 
ing flung 
His rider, who call'd out from the 

dark field, 
" Thou art false as Hell : slay me : I 

have no sword." 
Then Lancelot, "Yea, between thy 

lips — and sharp ; 
But here will I disedge it by thy 

death." 
" Slay then," he shriek'd, " my will is 

to be slain," 
And Lancelot, with his heel upon the 

fall'n, 
Rolling his eyes, a moment stood, 

then spake : 
"Rise, weakling; I am Lancelot; say 

thy say." 



And Lancelot slowly rode his war- 
horse back 

To Camelot, and Sir Pelleas in brief 
while 

Caught his unbroken limbs from the 
dark field, 

And follow 'd to the city. It chanced 
that both 

Brake into hall together, worn and 
pale. 

There with her knights and dames 
was Guinevere. 

Full wonderingly she gazed on Lance- 
lot 

So soon return'd, and then on Pelleas, 
him 

Who had not greeted her, but cast 
himself 

Down on a bench, hard-breathing 
" Have ye fought 1 " 

She ask'd of Lancelot. "Ay, my 
Queen," he said 



342 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



" And thou hast overthrown him % " 

" Ay, my Queen." 
Then she, turning to Pelleas, "0 

young knight, 
Hath the great heart of knighthood 

in thee fail'd 
So far thou canst not bide, unfro- 

wardly, 
A fall from him ■? " Then, for he 

answer'd not, 
"Or hast thou other griefs? If I, 

the Queen, 
May help them, loose thy tongue, and 

let me know." 
But Pelleas lifted up an eye so fierce 
She quail'd ; and he, hissing " I have 

no sword," 
Sprang from the door into the dark. 

The Queen 
Look'd hard upon her lover, he on 

her; 
And each foresaw the dolorous day 

to be : 
And all talk died, as in a grove all 

song 
Beneath the shadow of some bird of 

prey; 
Then a long silence came upon the 

hall, 
And Modred thought, "The time is 

hard at hand." 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 

Dagonet, the fool, whom Gawain in 

his mood 
Had made mock-knight of Arthur's 

Table Round, 
At Camelot, high above the yellow- 
ing woods, 
Danced like a wither'd leaf before the 

hall. 
And toward him from the hall, with 

harp in hand, 
And from the crown thereof a car- 

canet 
Of ruby swaying to and fro, the prize 
Of Tristram in the jousts of yesterday, 
Came Tristram, saying, " Why skip 

ye so, Sir Fool 1 " 



For Arthur and Sir Lancelot riding 

once 
Far down beneath a winding wall of 

rock 
Heard a child wail. A stump of oak 

half dead, 
From roots like some black coil of 

carven snakes, 
Clutch'd at the crag, and started thro' 

mid air 
Bearing an eagle's nest: and thro' 

the tree 
Rush'd ever a rainy wind, and thro' 

the wind 
Pierced ever a child's cry : and crag 

and tree 
Scaling, Sir Lancelot from the peril- 
ous nest, 
This ruby necklace thrice around her 

neck, 
And all unscarr'd from beak or talon, 

brought 
A maiden babe ; which Arthur pity- 
ing took, 
Then gave it to his Queen to rear : 

the Queen 
But coldly acquiescing, in her white 

arms 
Received, and after loved it tenderly, 
And named it Nestling; so forgot 

herself 
A moment, and her cares ; till that 

young life 
Being smitten in mid heaven with 

mortal cold 
Past from her; and in time the carcanet 
Vext her with plaintive memories of 

the child : 
So she, delivering it to Arthur, said 
" Take thou the jewels of this dead 

innocence, 
And make them, an thou wilt, a tour- 
ney-prize." 

To whom the King, " Peace to thine 

eagle-borne 
Dead nestling, and this honor after 

death, 
Following thy will ! but, O my Queen, 

I muse 
Why ye not wear on arm, or neck, or 

zone 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



343 



Those diamonds that I rescued from 

the tarn, 
And Lancelot won, methought, for 

thee to wear." 



" Would rather you had let them 
fall." she cried, 

" Plunge and be lost — ill-fated as 
they were, 

A bitterness to me ! — ye look amazed, 

Not knowing they were lost as soon 
as given — 

Slid from my hands, when I was lean- 
ing out 

Above the river — that unhappy child 

Past in her barge : but rosier luck 
will go 

With these rich jewels, seeing that 
they came 

Not from the skeleton of a brother- 
slayer, 

But the sweet body of a maiden babe. 

Perchance — who knows ? — the pur- 
est of thy knights 

May win them for the purest of my 
maids." 

She ended, and the cry of a great 

jousts 
With trumpet-blowings ran on all the 

ways 
From Camelot in among the faded 

fields 
To furthest towers ; and everywhere 

the knights 
Arm'd for a day of glory before the 

King. 



But on the hither side of that loud 
morn 

Into the hall stagger'd, his visage 
ribb'd 

From ear to ear with dogwhip-weals, 
his nose 

Bridge-broken, one eye out, and one 
hand off, 

Vnd one with shatter'd fingers dan- 
gling lame, 

A churl, to whom indignantly the 
King, 



" My churl, for whom Christ died, 

what evil beast 
Hath drawn his claws athwart thy 

face 1 or fiend ? 
Man was it who marr'd heaven's 

image in thee thus ? " 

Then, sputtering thro' the hedge of 

splinter'd teeth, 
Yet strangers to the tongue, and with 

blunt stump 
Pitch-blacken'd sawing the air, said 

the maim'd churl, 

" He took them and he drave them 

to his tower — 
Some hold he was a table-knight of 

thine — 
A hundred goodly ones — the Red 

Knight, he — 
Lord, I was tending swine, and the 

Red Knight 
Brake in upon me and drave them to 

his tower ; 
And when I call'd upon thy name as 

one 
That doest right by gentle and by 

churl, 
Maim'd me and maul'd, and would 

outright have slain, 
Save that he sware me to a message, 

saying, 
' Tell thou the King and all his liars, 

that I 
Have founded my Round Table in 

the North, 
And whatsoever his own knights have 

sworn 
My knights have sworn the counter 

to it — and say 
My tower is full of harlots, like his 

court, 
But mine are worthier, seeing they 

profess 
To be none other than themselves — 

and say 
My knights are all adulterers like his 

own, 
But mine are truer, seeing they pro- 
fess 
To be none other ; and say his hour is 

come, 



344 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



The heathen are upon him, his long 

lance 
Broken, and his Excalibur a straw. ' " 



Then Arthur turned to Kay the 

seneschal, 
"Take thou my churl, and tend him 

curiously 
Like a king's heir, till all his hurts be 

whole. 
The heathen — but that ever-climbing 

wave, 
Hurl'd back again so often in empty 

foam, 
Hath lain for years at rest — and 

renegades, 
Thieves, bandits, leavings of confu- 
sion, whom 
The wholesome realm is purged of 

otherwhere, 
Friends, thro' your manhood and your 

fealty, — now 
Make their last head like Satan in 

the North. 
My younger knights, new-made, in 

whom your flower 
Waits to be solid fruit of golden 

deeds, 
Move with me toward their quelling, 

which achieved, 
The loneliest ways are safe from 

shore to shore. 
But thou, Sir Lancelot, sitting in my 

place 
Enchair'd to-morrow, arbitrate the 

field; 
For wherefore shouldst thou care to 

mingle with it, 
Only to yield my Queen her own 

again ? 
Speak, Lancelot, thou art silent: is it 

well?" 

Thereto Sir Lancelot answer'd, " It 

is well : 
Yet better if the King abide, and 

leave 
The leading of his younger knights 

to me. 
Else, for the King has will'd it, it is 

well." 



Then Arthur rose and Lancelot fol- 
low'd him, 

And while they stood without the 
doors, the King 

Turn'd to him saying, " Is it then so 
well? 

Or mine the blame that oft I seem as he 

Of whom was written, ' A sound is in 
his ears ' ? 

The foot that loiters, bidden go,—- the 
glance 

That only seems half-loyal to com- 
mand, — 

A manner somewhat fall'n from rev- 
erence — 

Or have I dream'd the bearing of our 
knights 

Tells of a manhood ever less and 
lower 1 

Or whence the fear lest this my 
realm, uprear'd, 

Bynoble deeds at one with noble vows, 

From flat confusion and brute vio- 
lences, 

Reel back into the beast, and be no 
more ? " 

He spoke, and taking all his younger 

knights, 
Down the slope city rode, and sharply 

turn'd 
North by the gate. In her high bower 

the Queen, 
Working a tapestry, lifted up her 

head, 
Watch'd her lord pass, and knew not 

that she sigh'd. 
Then ran across her memory the 

strange rhyme 
Of bygone Merlin, " Where is he who 

knows ? 
From the great deep to the great 

deep he goes." 

But when the morning of a tourna- 
ment, 

By these in earnest those in mockery 
calPd 

The Tournament of the Dead Inno- 
cence, 

Brake with a wet wind blowing, Lan- 
celot, 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



345 



Round whose sick head all night, like 

birds of prey, 
The words of Arthur flying shriek'd, 

arose, 
And down ;i streetway hung with folds 

of pure 
White samite, and by fountains run- 
ning wine, 
Where children sat in white with cups 

of gold, 
Moved to tiie lists, and there, with slow 

sad steps 
Ascending, fill'd his double-dragon'd 

chair. 

He glanced and saw the stately gal- 
leries, 

Dame, damsel, each thro' worship of 
their Queen 

White-robed in honor of the stainless 
child, 

And some with scatter'd jewels, like 
a bank 

Of maiden snow mingled with sparks 
of fire. 

He look'd but once, and vail'd his 
eyes again. 

The sudden trumpet sounded as in 

a dream 
To ears but half-awaked, then one low 

roll 
Of Autumn thunder, and the jousts 

began : 
And ever the wind blew, and yellow- 
ing leaf 
And gloom and gleam, and shower 

and shorn plume 
Went down it. Sighing weariedly, as 

one 
Who sits and gazes on a faded fire, 
When all the goodlier guests are past 

away, 
Sat their great umpire, looking o'er 

the lists. 
He saw the laws that ruled the 

tournament 
Broken, but spake not ; once, a knight 

cast down 
Before his throne of arbitration 

cursed 



The dead babe and the follies of the 

King ; 
And once the laces of a helmet erack'd, 
And show'd him, like a vermin in its 

hole, 
Modred, a narrow face : anon he heard 
The voice that billow'd round the 

barriers roar 
An ocean-sounding welcome to one 

knight, 
But newly-enter'd, taller than the rest, 
And armor'd all in forest green, 

whereon 
There tript a hundred tiny silver deer, 
And wearing but a holly-spray for 

crest, 
With ever-scattering berries, and on 

shield 
A spear, a harp, a bugle — Tristram 

— late 
From overseas in Brittany return'd, 
And marriage with a princess of that 

realm, 
Isolt the White — Sir Tristram of the 

Woods — 
Whom Lancelot knew, had held some 

time with pain 
His own against him, and now yearn'd 

to shake 
The burden off his heart in one full 

shock 
With Tristram ev'n to death: his 

strong hands gript 
And dinted the gilt dragons right and 

left, 
Until he groan 'd for wrath — so many 

of those, 
That ware their ladies' colors on the 

casque, 
Drew from before Sir Tristram to the 

bounds, 
And there with gibes and flickering 

mockeries 
Stood, while he mutter'd, "Craven 

crests ! O shame ! 
What faith have these in whom they 

sware to love ? 
The glory of our Round Table is no 

more." 

So Tristram won, and Lancelot 
gave, the gems, 



346 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



Not speaking other word than "Hast 

thou won % 
Art thou the purest, brother 1 See, 

the hand 
Wherewith thou takest this, is red ! " 

to whom 
Tristram, half plagued by Lancelot's 

languorous mood, 
Made answer, " Ay, but wherefore toss 

me this 
Like a dry bone cast to some hungry 

hound 1 
Let be thy fair Queen's fantasy. 

Strength of heart 
And might of limb, but mainly use 

and skill, 
Are winners in this pastime of our 

King. 
My hand — belike the lance hath dript 

upon it — 
No blood of mine, I trow ; but O chief 

knight, 
Right arm of Arthur in the battlefield, 
Great brother, thou nor I have made 

the world ; 
Be happy in thy fair Queen as I in 

mine." 



And Tristram round the gallery 

made his horse 
Caracole ; then bow'd his homage, 

bluntly saying, 
"Fair damsels, each to him who wor- 
ships each 
Sole Queen of Beauty and of love, 

behold 
This day my Queen of Beauty is not 

here." 
And most of these were mute, some 

anger'd, one, 
Murmuring, "All courtesy is dead," 

and one, 
" The glory of our Round Table is no 

more." 



Then fell thick rain, plume droopt 

and mantle clung, 
And pettish cries awoke, and the wan 

day 
Went glooming down in wet and 

weariness : 



But under her black brows a swarthy 

one 
Laugh'd shrilly, crying, " Praise the 

patient saints, 
Our one white day of Innocence hath 

past, 
Tho' somewhat draggled at the skirt. 

So be it. 
The snowdrop only, flowering thro' the 

year, 
Would make the world as blank as 

Winter-tide. 
Come — let us gladden their sad eyes, 

our Queen's 
And Lancelot's at this night's solemnity 
With all the kindlier colors of the 

field." 

So dame and damsel glitter'd at the 

feast 
Variously gay: for he that tells the 

tale 
Liken'd them, saying, as when an hour 

of cold 
Falls on the mountain in midsummer 

snows, 
And all the purple slopes of mountain 

flowers 
Pass under white, till the warm hour 

returns 
With veer of wind, and all are flowers 

again ; 
So dame and damsel cast the simple 

white, 
And glowing in all colors, the live 

grass, 
Rose-campion, bluebell, kingcup, pop- 
py, glanced 
About the revels, and with mirth so 

loud 
Beyond all use, that, half-amazed, 

the Queen, 
And wroth at Tristram and the law- 
less jousts, 
Brake up their sports, then slowly to 

her bower 
Parted, and in her bosom pain was lord. 

And little Dagonet on the morrow 
morn, 
High over all the yellowing Autumn 
tide, 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



347 



Danced like a wither'd leaf before the 

hall. 
Then Tristram saying, " AVhy skip ye 

so, Sir Fool ? " 
Wheel'd round on either heel, Dagonet 

replied, 
"Belike for lack of wiser company; 
Or being fool, and seeing too much 

wit 
Make? the world rotten, why, belike I 

skip 
To know myself the wisest knight of 

all." 
" Ay, fool," said Tristram, but 'tis 

eating dry 
To dance without a catch, a roundelay 
To dance to." Then he twangled on 

his harp, 
And while he twangled little Dagonet 

stood 
Quiet as any water-sodden log 
Stay'd in the wandering warble of a 

brook ; 
But when the twangling ended, skipt 

again ; 
And being ask'd, " Why skip ye not, 

Sir Fool ? " 
Made answer, "I had liefer twenty 

years 
Skip to the broken music of my brains 
Than any broken music thou canst 

make." 
Then Tristram, waiting for the quip 

to come, 
" Good now, what music have I 

broken, fool ? " 
And little Dagonet, skipping, "Arthur, 

the King's ; 
For when thou playest that air with 

Queen Isolt, 
Thou makest broken music with thy 

bride, 
Her daintier namesake down in Brit- 
tany — 
And so thou breakest Arthur's music 

too." 
" Save for that broken music in thy 

brains, 
Sir Fool," said Tristram, "I would 

break thy head. 
Fool, I came late, the heat lien wars 

were o'er, 



The life had flown, we sware but by 

the shell — 
I am but a fool to reason with a fool — 
Come, thou art crabb'd and sour : 

but lean me down, 
Sir Dagonet, one of thy long asses' 

ears, 
And harken if my music be not true. 

" ' Free love — free field — we love 

but while we may : 
The woods are hush'd, their music is 

no more : 
The leaf is dead, the yearning past 

away : 
New leaf, new life — the days of frost 

are o'er : 
New life, new love, to suit the newer 

day: 
New loves are sweet as those that went 

before : 
Free love — free field — we love but 

while we may/ 

" Ye might have moved slow-meas- 
ure to my tune, 

Not stood stockstill. I made it in the 
woods, 

And heard it ring as true as tested 
gold." 

But Dagonet with one foot poised 

in his hand, 
" Friend, did ye mark that fountain 

yesterday 
Made to run wine ? — but this had run 

itself 
All out like a long life to a sour 

end — 
And them that round it sat with gold- 
en cups 
To hand the wine to whosoever came — 
The twelve small damosels white as 

Innocence, 
In honor of poor Innocence the babe, 
Who left the gems which Innocence 

the Queen 
Lent to the King, and Innocence the 

King 
Gave for a prize — and one of those 

white slips 



348 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



Handed her cup and piped, the pretty- 
one, 

' Drink, drink, Sir Fool,' and there- 
upon I drank, 

Spat — pish — the cup was gold, the 
draught was mud." 

And Tristram," Was it muddier than 

thy gibes ? 
Is all the laughter gone dead out of 

thee ? — 
Not marking how the knighthood 

mock thee, fool — 
'Fear God : honor the King — his 

one true knight — 
Sole follower of the vows' — for here 

be they 
Who knew thee swine enow before I 

came, 
Smuttier than blasted grain: but 

when the King 
Had made thee fool, thy vanity so 

shot up 
It frighted all free fool from out 

thy heart; 
Which left thee less than fool, and less 

than swine, 
A naked aught — yet swine I hold 

thee still, 
For I have flung thee pearls and find 

thee swine." 

And little Dagonet mincing with his 
feet, 

"Knight, an ye fling those rubies 
round my neck 

In lieu of hers, I'll hold thou hast 
some touch 

Of music, since I care not for thy 
pearls. 

Swine % I have wallow'd, I have 
wash'd — the world 

Is flesh and shadow — I have had my 
day. 

The dirty nurse, Experience, in her 
kind 

Hath foul'd me — an I wallow'd, then 
I wash'd — 

I have had my day and my philoso- 
phies — 

And thank the Lord I am King Ar- 
thur's fool. 



Swine, say ye ? swine, goats, asses, 

rams and geese 
Troop'd round a Paynim harper once, 

who thrumm'd 
On such a wire as musically as thou 
Some such fine song — but never a 

king's fool." 

And Tristram, " Then were swine, 

goats, asses, geese 
The wiser fools, seeing thy Paynim 

bard 
Had such a mastery of his mystery 
That he could harp his wife up out 

of hell." 

Then Dagonet, turning on the ball 
of his foot, 

" And whither harp'st thou thine ? 
down! and thyself 

Down ! and two more : a helpful harp- 
er thou, 

That harpest downward ! Dost thou 
know the star 

We call the harp of Arthur up in 
heaven ? " 

And Tristram, "Ay, Sir Fool, for 

when our King 
Was victor wellnigh day by day, the 

knights, 
Glorying in each new glory, set his 

name 
High on hills, and in the signs of 

heaven." 

And Dagonet answer'd, " Ay, and 

when the land 
Was freed, and the Queen false, ye 

set yourself 
To babble about him, all to show you? 

wit — 
And whether he were King by cour 

tesy, 
Or King by right — and so went harp- 
ing down 
The black king's highway, got so far, 

and grew 
So witty that ye play'd at ducks and 

drakes 
With Arthur's vows on the great lake 

of fire. 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



349 



Tuwhoo ! do ye see it \ do ye see the 
star ? 

"Nay, fool," said Tristram, "not in 

open day." 
And Dagonet, " Nay, nor will : I see 

it and hear. 
It makes a silent music up in heaven, 
And I, and Arthur and the angels 

hear. 
And then we skip." " Lo, fool," he 

said, " ye talk 
Fool's treason : is the King thy brother 

fool ? " 
Then little Dagonet clapt his hands 

and shrill'd. 
"Ay, av, my brother fool, the king of 

fools*! 
Conceits himself as God that he can 

make 
Figs out of thistles, silk from bristles, 

milk 
From burning spurge, honey from hor- 
net-combs, 
And men from beasts — Long live the 

king of fools ! " 

And down the city Dagonet danced 
away : 
But thro' the slowly-mellowing ave- 
nues 
And solitary passes of the wood 
Rode Tristram toward Lyonnesse and 

the west. 
Before him fled the face of Queen Isolt 
With ruby-circled neck, but evermore 
Past, as a rustle or twitter in the Avood 
Made dull his inner, keen his outer eye 
For all that walk'd, or crept, or 

perch'd, or flew. 
Anon the face, as, when a gust hath 

blown, 
I'nrutfling waters re-collect the shape 
Of one that in them sees himself, re- 

turn'd ; 
But at the slot or fewmets of a deer, 
Orev'n a fall'n feather,vanish'd again. 

So on for all that day from lawn to 
lawn 
Thro' many a league-long bower he 
rode. At length 



A lodge of intertwisted beechen- 
boughs 

Furze-cranmi'd, and bracken-roof t, the 
which himself 

Built for a summer day with Queen 
Isolt 

Against a slower, dark in the golden 
grove 

Appearing, sent his fancy back to 
where 

She lived a moon in that low lodge 
with him : 

Till Mark her lord had past, the Corn- 
ish King, 

With six or seven, when Tristram was 
away, 

And snatch'd her thence ; yet dread- 
ing worse than shame 

Her warrior Tristram, spake not any 
word, 

But bode his hour, devising wretched- 



And now that desert lodge to Tris- 
tram lookt 
So sweet, that halting, in he past, and 

sank 
Down on a drift of foliage random 

blown ; 
But could not rest for musing how to 

smoothe 
And sleek his marriage over to the 

Queen. 
Perchance in lone Tintagil far from 

all 
The tonguesters of the court she had 

not heard. 
But then what folly had sent him over- 
seas 
After she left him lonely here ? a 

name ? 
Was it the name of one in Brittany, 
Isolt, the daughter of the King 1 

" Isolt 
Of the white hands " they call'd her : 

the sweet name 
Allured him first, and then the maid 

herself, 
Who served him well with those white 

hands of hers, 
And loved him well, until himself had 

thought 



350 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



He loved her also, wedded easily, 
But left her all as easily and return'd. 
The black-blue Irish hair and Irish 

eyes 
Had drawn him home — what marvel ? 

then he laid 
His brows upon the drifted leaf and 

dream'd. 



He seem'd to pace the strand of 

Brittany 
Between Isolt of Britain and his bride, 
And show'd them both the ruby-chain, 

and both 
Began to struggle for it, till his 

Queen 
Graspt it so hard, that all her hand 

was red. 
Then cried the Breton, "Look, her 

hand is red ! 
These be no rubies, this is frozen 

blood, 
And melts within her hand — her 

hand is hot 
With ill desires, but this I gave thee, 

look, 
Is all as cool and white as any flower." 
Follow'd a rush of eagle's wings, and 

then 
A whimpering of the spirit of the 

child, 
Because the twain had spoiled her 

carcanet. 



He dream'd; but Arthur with a 

hundred spears 
Rode far, till o'er the illimitable reed, 
And many a glancing plash and sal- 

lowy isle, 
The wide-wing'd sunset of the misty 

marsh 
Glared on a huge machicolated tower 
That stood with open doors, where- 

out was roll'd 
A roar of riot, as from men secure 
Amid their marshes, ruffians at their 

ease 
Among their harlot-brides, an evil 

song. 
*' Lo there," said one of Arthur's 

youth, for there, 



High on a grim dead tree before the 

tower, 
A goodly brother of the Table Round 
Swung by the neck : and on the 

boughs a shield 
Showing a shower of blood in a field 

noir, 
And there beside a horn, inflamed the 

knights 
At that dishonor done the gilded spur, 
Till each would clash the shield, and 

blow the horn. 
But Arthur waved them back. Alone 

he rode. 
Then at the dry harsh roar of the 

great horn, 
That sent the face of all the marsh 

aloft 
An ever upward-rushing storm and 

cloud 
Of shriek and plume, the Red Knight 

heard, and all, 
Even to tipmost lance and top- 
most helm, 
In blood-red armor sallying, howl'd 

to the King, 

"The teeth of Hell flay bare and 

gnash thee flat ! — 
Lo ! art thou not that eunuch-hearted 

King 
Who fain had dipt free manhood 

from the world — 
The woman-worshipper ? Yea, God's 

curse, and I! 
Slain was the brother of my para- 
mour 
By a knight of thine, and I that heard 

her whine 
And snivel, being eunuch-hearted too, 
Sware by the scorpion-worm that 

twists in hell, 
And stings itself to everlasting death, 
To hang whatever knight of thine I 

fought 
And tumbled. Art thou King ? — 

Look to thy life ! " 

He ended : Arthur knew the voice ; 
the face 
Wellnigh was helmet-hidden, and the 
name 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



351 



Went wandering somewhere darkling 

in his mind. 
And Arthur deign'd not use of word 

or sword, 
But let the drunkard, as he stretch'd 

from horse 
To strike him, overbalancing his 

bulk, 
Down from the causeway heavily to 

the swamp 
Fall, as the crest of some slow-arching 

wave, 
Heard in dead night along that table- 
shore, 
Drops flat, and after the great waters 

break 
Whitening for half a league, and thin 

themselves, 
Far over sands marbled with moon 

and cloud, 
From less and less to nothing; thus 

he fell 
Head-heavy; then the knights, who 

watch'd him, rcar'd 
And shouted and leapt down upon the 

fall'n ; 
There trampled out his face from 

being known, 
And sank his head in mire, and slimed 

themselves : 
Nor heard the King for their own 

cries, but sprang 
Thro' open doors, and swording right 

and left 
Men, women, on their sodden faces, 

hurl'd 
The tables over and the wines, and 

slew 
Till all the rafters rang with woman- 
yells, 
And all the pavement stream'd with 

massacre : 
Then, yell with yell echoing, they 

fired the tower, 
Which half that autumn night, like 

the live North, 
Red-pulsing up thro' Alioth and 

Alcor, 
Made all above it, and a hundred 

meres 
About it, as the water Moab 

saw 



Come round by the East, and out be- 
yond them flush'd 
The long low dune, and lazy-plunging 



So all the ways were safe from 
shore to shore, 
But in the heart of Arthur pain was 
lord. 

Then, out of Tristram waking, the 

red dream 
Fled with a shout, and that low lodge 

re turn 'd, 
Mid-forest, and the wind among the 

boughs. 
He whistled his good warhorse left to 

graze 
Among the forest greens, vaulted 

upon him, 
And rode beneath an ever-showering 

leaf, 
Till one lone woman, weeping near a 

cross, 
Stay'd him. " Why weep ye ? " 

" Lord," she said, " my man 
Hath left me or is dead ; " whereon he 

thought — 
" What, if she hate me now ? I 

would not this. 
" What, if she loves me still ? I 

would not that. 
I know not what I would" — but said 

to her, 
" Yet weep not thou, lest, if thy mate 

return, 
He find thy favor changed and love 

thee not " — 
Then pressing day by day thro' 

Lyonnesse 
Last in a rocky hollow, belling, heard 
The hounds of Mark, and felt the 

goodly hounds 
Yelp at his heart, but turning, past 

and gain'd 
Tintagil, half in sea, and high on 

land, 
A crown of towers. 

Down in a casement sat, 
A low sea-sunset glorying round her 
hair 



352 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



And glossy-throated grace, Isolt the 

Queen. 
And when she heard the feet of Tris- 
tram grind 
The spiring stone that scaled about 

her tower, 
Flush'd, started, met him at the doors, 

and there 
Belted his body with her white em- 
brace, 
Crying aloud, " Not Mark — not 

Mark, my soul ! 
The footstep flutter'd me at first : not 

he: 
Catlike thro' his own castle steals my 

Mark, 
But warrior-wise thou stridest thro' 

his halls 
Who hates thee, as I him — ev'n to 

the death. 
My soul, I felt my hatred for my 

Mark 
Quicken within me, and knew that 

thou wert nigh." 
To whom Sir Tristram smiling, " I am 

here. 
Let be thy Mark, seeing he is not 

thine." 

And drawing somewhat backward 

she replied, 
" Can he be wrong'd who is not ev'n 

his own, 
But save for dread of thee had beaten 

me, 
Scratch'd, bitten, blinded, marr'd me 

somehow — Mark % 
What rights are his that dare not 

strike for them ? 
Not lift a hand — not, tho' he found 

me thus ! 
But hearken ! have ye met him ? 

hence he went 
To-day for three days' hunting — as 

he said — 
And so returns belike within an hour. 
Mark's way, my soul ! — but eat not 

thou with Mark, 
Because he hates thee even more than 

fears ; 
Nor drink : and when thou passest 

any wood 



Close vizor, lest an arrow from the 

bush 
Should leave me all alone with Mark 

and hell. 
My God, the measure of my hate for 

Mark 
Is as the measure of my love for 

thee." 

So, pluck'd one way by hate and 

one by love, 
Drain'd of her force, again she sat, 

and spake 
To Tristram, as he knelt before her, 

saying, 
" O hunter, and blower of the horn, 
Harper, and thou hast been a rover 

too, 
For, ere I mated with my shambling 

king, 
Ye twain had fallen out about the 

bride 
Of one — his name is out of me — the 

prize, 
If prize she were — (what marvel — 

she could see) — 
Thine, friend; and ever since my 

craven seeks 
To wreck thee villanously: but, O 

Sir Knight, 
What dame or damsel have ye kneel'd 

to last ? " 

And Tristram, " Last to my Queen 

Paramount, 
Here now to my Queen Paramount of 

love 
And loveliness — ay, lovelier than 

when first 
Her light feet fell on our rough Ly- 

onnesse, 
Sailing from Ireland." 

Softly laugh'd Isolt ; 

" Flatter me not, for hath not our great 
Queen 

My dole of beauty trebled ? " and he 
said, 

" Her beauty is her beauty, and thine 
thine, 

And thine is more to me — soft, gra- 
cious, kind — 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



353 



Save when thy Mark is kindled on 

thy lips 
Most gracious ; but she, haughty, ev'n 

to him, 
Lancelot; for I have seen him wan enow 
To make one doubt if ever the great 

Queen 
Have yielded him her love." 

To whom Isolt, 

" Ah then, false hunter and false har- 
per, thou 

Who brakest thro' the scruple of my 
bond, 

Calling me thy white hind, and say- 
ing to me 

That Guinevere had sinn'd against 
the highest, 

And I — misyoked with such a want 
of man — 

That I could hardly sin against the 
lowest." 

He answer'd, " O my soul, be com- 
forted ! 

If this be sweet, to sin in leading- 
strings, 

If here be comfort, and if ours be sin, 

Crown'd warrant had we for the 
crowning sin 

That made us happy : but how ye 
greet me — fear 

And fault and doubt — no word of 
that fond tale — 

Thy deep heart-yearnings, thy sweet 
memories 

Of Tristram in that year he was 
away." 

And, saddening on the sudden, spake 
Isolt, 
" I had forgotten all in my strong joy 
To see thee — yearnings ? — ay ! for, 

hour by hour, 
Here in the never-ended afternoon, 
sweeter than all memories of thee, 
Deeper than any yearnings after thee 
Seem'd those far-rolling, westward- 
smiling seas, 
Watch'd from this tower. Isolt of 

Britain dash'd 
Before Isolt of Brittany on the strand, 



Would that have chill'd her bride- 
kiss 1 Wedded her ? 

Fought in her father's battles ? 
wounded there? 

The King was all fulfill'd with grate- 
fulness, 

And she, my namesake of the hands, 
that heal'd 

Thy hurt and heart with unguent and 
caress — 

Well — can I wish her any huger 
wrong 

Than having known thee 1 her too 
hast thou left 

To pine and waste in those sweet 
memories. 

O were I not my Mark's, by whom all 
men 

Are noble, I should hate thee more 
than love." 



And Tristram, fondling her light 

hands, replied, 
"Grace, Queen, for being loved: she 

loved me well. 
Did I love her 1 the name at least I 

loved. 
Isolt 1 — I fought his battles, for Isolt ! 
The night was dark ; the true star set. 

Isolt ! 
The name was ruler of the dark 

Isolt T 
Care not for her ! patient, and prayer- 
ful, meek, 
Pale-blooded, she will yield herself to 

God." 

And Isolt answer'd, " Yea, and why 

not 11 
Mine is the larger need, who am not 

meek, 
Pale-blooded, prayerful. Let me tell 

thee now. 
Here one black, mute midsummer 

night I sat, 
Lonely, but musing on thee, wonder- 
ing where, 
Murmuring a light song I had heard 

thee sing, 
And once or twice I spake thy name 

aloud, 



354 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



Then flash'd a levin-brand ; and near 

me stood, 
In fuming sulphur blue and green, a 

fiend — 
Mark's way to steal behind one in the 

dark — 
For there was Mark : ' He has wedded 

her/ he said, 
Not said, but hiss'd it : then this crown 

of towers 
So shook to such a roar of all the 

sky, 
That here in utter dark I swoon'd 

away, 
And woke again in utter dark, and 

cried, 
' I will flee hence and give myself to 

God' — 
And thou wert lying in thy new 

leman's arms." 

Then Tristram, ever dallying with 

her hand, 
" May God be with thee, sweet, when 

old and gray, 
And past desire ! " a saying that 

anger'd her. 
" ' May God be with thee, sweet, when 

thou art old, 
And sweet no more to me!' I need 

Him now. 
For when had Lancelot utter'd aught 

so gross 
Ev'n to the swineherd's malkin in the 

mast 1 
The greater man, the greater courtesy. 
Far other was the Tristram, Arthur's 

knight ! 
But thou, thro' ever harrying thy 

wild beasts — 
Save that to touch a harp, tilt with a 

lance 
Becomes thee well — art grown wild 

beast thyself. 
How darest thou, if lover, push me 

even 
In fancy from thy side, and set me 

far 
In the gray distance, half a life away, 
Her to be loved no more ? Unsay it, 

unswear ! 
Flatter me rather, seeing me so weak, 



Broken with Mark and hate and soli- 
tude, 
Thy marriage and mine own, that I 

should suck 
Lies like sweet wines : lie to me : I 

believe. 
Will ye not lie ? not swear, as there 

ye kneel, 
And solemnly as when ye sware to 

him, 
The man of men, our King — My 

God, the power 
Was once in vows when men believed 

the King ! 
They lied not then, who sware, and 

thro' their vows 
The King prevailing made his realm : 

— I say, 
Swear to me thou wilt love me ev'n 

when old, 
Gray-hair'd, and past desire, and in 

despair." 



Then Tristram, pacing moodily up 

and down, 
" Vows ! did you keep the vow you 

made to Mark 
More than I mine ? Lied, say ye ? 

Nay, but learnt, 
The vow that binds too strictly snaps 

itself — 
My knighthood taught me this — ay, 

being snapt — 
We run more counter to the soul 

thereof 
Than had we never sworn. I swear 

no more. 
I swore to the great King, and am 

forsworn. 
For once — ev'n to the height — I 

honor'd him. 
' Man, is he man at all ? ' methought, 

when first 
I rode from our rough Lyonnesse, and 

beheld 
That victor of the Pagan throned in 

hall — 
His hair, a sun that ray'd from off a 

brow 
Like hillsnow high in heaven, the 

steel-blue eyes, 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



355 



The golden beard that clothed his 

lips with light — 
Moreover, that weird legend of his 

birth, 
With Merlin's mystic babble about 

his end 
Amazed me ; then, his foot was on a 

stool 
Shaped as a dragon ; he seem'd to me 

no man, 
But Michael trampling Satan ; so I 

sware, 
Being amazed: but this went by — 

The vows! 
ay — the wholesome madness of 

an hour — 
They served their use, their time ; for 

every knight 
Believed himself a greater than him- 
self, 
And every follower eyed him as a God; 
Till he, being lifted up beyond him- 
self, 
Did mightier deeds than elsewise he 

had done, 
And so the realm was made ; but 

then their vows — 
First mainly thro' that sullying of 

our Queen — 
Began to gall the knighthood, asking 

whence 
Had Arthur right to bind them to 

himself ? 
Dropt down from heaven ? wash'd 

up from out the deep ? 
They fail'd to trace him thro' the 

flesh and blood 
Of our old kings: whence then? a 

doubtful lord 
To bind them by inviolable vows, 
Which flesh and blood perforce would 

violate : 
For feel this arm of mine — the tide 

within 
Red with free chase and heather- 

nted air, 
Pulsing full man; can Arthur make 

me pure 
As any maiden child 1 ? lock up my 

tongue 
From uttering freely what I freely 

hear? 



Bind me to one? The wide world 

laughs at it. 
And worldling of the world am I, and 

know 
The ptarmigan that whitens ere his 

hour 
Woos his own end ; we are not angels 

here 
Nor shall be : vows — I am woodman 

of the woods, 
And hear the garnet-headed yaffingale 
Mock them : my soul, we love but 

while we may ; 
And therefore is my love so large for 

thee, 
Seeing it is not bounded save by 

love." 

Here ending, he moved toward her, 

and she said, 
" Good : an I turn'd away my love for 

thee 
To some one thrice as courteous as 

thyself — 
For courtesy wins women all as well 
As valor may, but he that closes both 
Is perfect, he is Lancelot — taller in- 
deed, 
Rosier and comelier, thou — but say I 

loved 
This knightliest of all knights, and 

cast thee back 
Thine own small saw, ' We love but 

while we may,' 
Well then, what answer 1 ' 



He that while she spake, 
Mindful of what he brought to adorn 

her with, 
The jewels, had let one finger lightly 

touch 
The warm white apple of her throat, 

replied, 
" Press this a little closer, sweet, 

until — 
Come, I am hunger'd and half-an- 

ger'd — meat, 
Wine, wine — and I will love thee to 

the death, 
And out beyond into the dream to 

come." 



356 



GUINEVERE. 



So then, when both were brought 

to full accord. 
She rose, and set before him all he 

will'd ; 
And after these had comforted the 

blood 
With meats and wines, and satiated 

their hearts — 
Now talking of their woodland para- 
dise, 
The deer, the dews, the fern,' the 

founts, the lawns ; 
Now mocking at the much ungainli- 

ness, 
And craven shifts, and long crane 

legs of Mark — 
Then Tristram laughing caught the 

harp, and sang : 

"Ay, ay, O ay — the winds that 

bend the brier ! 
A star in heaven, a star within the 

mere ! 
Ay, ay, O ay — a star was my desire, 
And one was far apart, and one was 

near : 
Ay, ay, O ay — the winds that bow 

the grass ! 
And one was water and one star was 

fire, 
And one will ever shine and one will 

pass. 
Ay, ay, O ay — the winds that move 

the mere." 

Then in the light's last glimmer 

Tristram show'd 
And swung the ruby carcanet. She 

cried, 
" The collar of some Order, which 

our King 
Hath newly founded, all for thee, my 

soul, 
For thee, to yield thee grace beyond 

thy peers." 

" Not so, my Queen," he said, " but 
the red fruit 

Grown on a magic oak-tree in mid- 
heaven, 

And won by Tristram as a tourney- 
prize, 



And hither brought by Tristram for 

his last 
Love-offering and peace-offering unto 

thee." 

He spoke, he turn'd, then, flinging 

round her neck, 
Claspt it, and cried " Thine Order, 

my Queen ! " 
But, while he bow'd to kiss the jew- 

ell'd throat, 
Out of the dark, just as the lips had 

touch'd, 
Behind him rose a shadow and a 

shriek — 
" Mark's way," said Mark, and clove 

him thro' the brain. 

That night came Arthur home, and 

while he climb'd, 
All in a death-dumb autumn-drip- 
ping gloom, 
The stairway to the hall, and look'd 

and saw 
The great Queen's bower was dark, — 

about his feet 
A voice clung sobbing till he ques- 

tion'd it, 
" What art thou ? " and the voice 

about his feet 
Sent up an answer, sobbing, "I am 

thy fool, 
And I shall never make thee smile 

again." 



GUINEVERE. 

Queen Guinevere had fled the court, 

and sat 
There in the holy house at Almesbury 
Weeping, none with her save a little 

maid, 
A novice : one low light betwixt them 

burn'd 
Blurr'd by the creeping mist, for all 

abroad, 
Beneath a moon unseen albeit at full, 
The white mist, like a face-cloth to 

the face, 
Clung to the dead earth, and the land 

was still. 



GUINEVERE. 



357 



For hither had she fled, her cause 

of flight 
Sir Modred; he that like a subtle 

beast 
Lay couchant with his eyes upon the 

throne, 
Ready to spring, waiting a chance : 

for this 
He chill'd the popular praises of the 

King 
With silent smiles of slow disparage- 
ment ; 
And tamper'd with the Lords of the 

White Horse, 
Heathen, the brood by Hengist left ; 

and sought 
To make disruption in the Table Round 
Of Arthur, and to splinter it into feuds 
Serving his traitorous end ; and all 

his aims 
Were sharpen'd by strong hate for 

Lancelot. 

For thus it chanced one morn when 
all the court, 

Green-suited, but with plumes that 
mock'd the may, 

Had been, their wont, a-maying and 
return'd, 

That Modred still in green, all ear 
and eye, 

Climb'd to the high top of the garden- 
wall 

To spy some secret scandal if he might, 

And saw the Queen who sat betwixt 
her best 

Enid, and lissome Vivien, of her court 

The wiliest and the worst; and more 
than this 

He saw not, for Sir Lancelot passing 
by 

Spied where he crouch'd, and as the 
gardener's hand 

Picks from the colewort a green cater- 
pillar, 

So from the high wall and the flower- 
ing grove 

Of grasses Lancelot pluck'd him by 
the heel, 

And cast him as a worm upon the way ; 

But when he knew the Prince tho' 
marr'd with dust, 



He, reverencing king's blood in a bad 

man, 
Made such excuses as he might, and 

these 
Full knightly without scorn; for in 

those days 
No knight of Arthur's noblest dealt 

in scorn; 
But, if a man were halt or hunch'd, 

in him 
By those whom God had made full- 

limb'd and tall, 
Scorn was allow'd as part of his defect, 
And he was answer'd softly by the King 
And all his Table. So Sir Lancelot 

holp 
To raise the Prince, who rising twice 

or thrice 
Full sharply smote his knees, and 

smiled, and went : 
But, ever after, the small violence done 
Rankledinhim and ruffled all his heart, 
As the sharp wind that ruffles all day 

long 
A little bitter pool about a stone 
On the bare coast. 

But when Sir Lancelot told 
This matter to the Queen, at first she 

laugh 'd 
Lightly, to think of Modred's dusty fall, 
Then shudder'd, as the village wife 

who cries 
" I shudder, some one steps across my 

grave ; " 
Then laugh'd again, but faintlier, for 

indeed 
She half-foresaw that he, the subtle 

beast, 
Would track her guilt until he found, 

and hers 
Would be for evermore a name of scorn. 
Henceforward rarely could she front 

in hall, 
Or elsewhere, Modred's narrow foxy 

face, 
Heart-hiding Bmile, and gray persis- 
tent eye : 
Henceforward too, the Powers that 

tend the soul, 
To help it from the death that cannot 

die, 



358 



GUINEVERE. 



And save it even in extremes, began 
To vex and plague her. Many a time 

for hours, 
Beside the placid breathings of the 

King, 
In the dead night, grim faces came 

and went 
Before her, or a vague spiritual fear — 
Like to some doubtful noise of creak- 
ing doors, 
Heard by the watcher in a haunted 

house, 
That keeps the rust of murder on the 

walls — 
Held her awake : or if she slept, she 

dream'd 
An awful dream ; for then she seem'd 

to stand 
On some vast plain before a setting 

sun, 
And from the sun there swiftly made 

at her 
A ghastly something, and its shadow 

flew 
Before it, till it touch'd her, and she 

turn'd — 
When lo ! her own, that broadening 

from her feet, 
And blackening, swallow'd all the 

land, and in it 
Far cities burnt, and with a cry she 

woke. 
And all this trouble did not pass but 

grew; 
Till ev'n the clear face of the guileless 

King, 
And trustful courtesies of household 

life, 
Became her bane ; and at the last she 

said, 
" O Lancelot, get thee hence to thine 

own land, 
For if thou tarry we shall meet again, 
And if we meet again, some evil chance 
Will make the smouldering scandal 

break and blaze 
Before the people, and our lord the 

King." 
And Lancelot ever promised, but re- 

main'd, 
And still they met and met. Again 

she said, 



" O Lancelot, if thou love me get thee 

hence." 
And then they were agreed upon a 

night 
(When the good King should not be 

there) to meet 
And part for ever. Passion-pale they 

met 
And greeted : hands in hands, and eye 

to eye, 
Low on the border of her couch they 

sat 
Stammering and staring : it was their 

last hour, 
A madness of farewells. And Modred 

brought 
His creatures to the basement of the 

tower 
For testimony; and crying with full 

voice 
"Traitor, come out, ye are trapt at 

last," aroused 
Lancelot, who rushing outward lionlike 
Leapt on him, and hurl'd him head- 
long, and he fell 
Stunn'd, and his creatures took and 

bare him off, 
And all was still : then she, " The end 

is come, 
And I am shamed for ever ; " and he 

said, 
"Mine be the shame; mine was the 

sin : but rise, 
And fly to my strong castle overseas : 
There will I hide thee, till my life 

shall end, 
There hold thee with my life against 

the world." 
She answer'd, "Lancelot, wilt thou 

hold me so 1 
Nay, friend, for we have taken our 

farewells. 
Would God that thou couldst hide me 

from myself ! 
Mine is the shame, for I was wife, and 

thou 
Unwedded : yet rise now, and let us fly, 
For I will draw me into sanctuary, 
And bide my doom." So Lancelot 

got her horse, 
Set her thereon, and mounted on his 

own, 



GUINEVERE. 



359 



And then they rode to the divided way, 
There kiss'd, and parted weeping : for 

he past, 
Love-loyal to the least wish of the 

Queen, 
Back to his land ; but she to Almes- 

bury 
Fled all night long by glimmering 

waste and weald, 
And heard the spirits of the waste 

and weald 
Moan as she fled, or thought she heard 

them moan : 
And in herself she moan'd " Too late, 

too late ! " 
Till in the cold wind that foreruns the 

morn, 
A blot in heaven, the Raven, flying 

high, 
Croak'd, and she thought, " He spies 

a field of death ; 
For now the Heathen of the Northern 

Sea, 
Lured by the crimes and frailties of 

the court, 
Begin to slay the folk, and spoil the 

land." 

Ancbwhen she came to Almesbury 

she spake 
There to the nuns, and said, " Mine 

enemies 
Pursue me, but, peaceful Sisterhood, 
Receive, and yield me sanctuary, nor 

ask 
Her name to whom ye yield it, till her 

time 
To tell you : " and her beauty, grace 

and power, 
Wrought as a charm upon them, and 

they spared 
To ask it. 

So the stately Queen abode 
For main' a week, unknown, among 

the nuns ; 
Nor with them mix'd, nor told her 

name, nor sought, 
Wrapt in her grief, for housel or for 

shrift, 
But communed only with the little 

maid, 



Who pleased her with a babbling 

heedlessness 
Which often lured her from herself ; 

but now, 
This night, a rumor wildly blown 

about 
Came, that Sir Modred had usurp'd 

the realm, 
And leagued him with the heathen, 

while the King 
Was waging war on Lancelot : then 

she thought, 
" With what a hate the people and 

the King 
Must hate me," and bow'd down upon 

her hands 
Silent, until the little maid, who 

brook'd 
No silence, brake it, uttering " Late ! 

so late ! 
What hour, I wonder, now ? " and when 

she drew 
No answer, by and by began to hum 
An air the nuns had taught her; 

" Late, so late ! " 
Which when she heard, the Queen 

look'd up, and said, 
" O maiden, if indeed ye list to sing, 
Sing, and unbind my heart that I may 

weep." 
Whereat full willingly sang the little 

maid. 

"Late, late, so late! and dark the 

night and chill ! 
Late, late, so late ! but we can enter 

still. 
Too late, too late ! ye cannot enteT 

now. 

" No light had we : for that we do 

repent ; 
And learning this, the bridegroom 

will relent. 
Too late, too late ! ye cannot entei 

now. 

" No light : so late ! and dark 
and chill the night ! 
let us in, that we may find the light ! 
Too late, too late : ye cannot enter 



3(5© 



GUINEVERE. 



" Have we not heard the bridegroom 
is so sweet ? 

let us in, tho' late, to kiss his feet ! 
No, no, too late ! ye cannot enter 

now." 

So sang the novice, while full pas- 
sionately, 

Her head upon her hands, remember- 
ing 

Her thought when first she came, 
wept the sad Queen. 

Then said the little novice prattling 
to her, 

" pray you, noble lady, weep no 

more ; 
But let my words, the words of one 

so small, 
Who knowing nothing knows but to 

obey, 
And if I do not there is penance giv- 
en — 
Comfort your sorrows ; for they do 

not flow 
From evil done ; right sure I am of 

that, 
Who see your tender grace and state- 

liness. 
But weigh your sorrows with our lord 

the King's, 
And weighing find them less ; for 

gone is he 
To wage grim war against Sir Lance- 
lot there, 
Round that strong castle where, he 

holds the Queen ; 
And Modred whom he left in charge 

of all, 
The traitor — Ah sweet lady, the 

King's grief 
For his own self, and his own Queen, 

and realm, 
Must needs be thrice as great as any 

of ours. 
For me, I thank the saints, I am not 

great. 
For if there ever come a grief to me 

1 cry my cry in silence, and have done. 
None knows it, and my tears have 

brought me good : 
But even were the griefs of little ones 



As great as those of great ones, yet 

this grief 
Is added to the griefs the great must 

bear, 
That howsoever much they may desire 
Silence, they cannot weep behind a 

cloud : 
As even here they talk at Almesbury 
About the good King and his wicked 

Queen, 
And were I such a King with such a 

Queen, 
Well might I wish to veil her wicked- 
ness, 
But were I such a King, it could not 

be." 



Then to her own sad heart mutter'd 
the Queen, 

" Will the child kill me with her inno- 
cent talk 1 " 

But openly she answerM, " Must not I, 

If this false traitor have displaced his 
lord, 

Grieve with the common grief of all 
the realm 1 " 

" Yea," said the maid, " th^s is all 

woman's grief, 
That she is woman, whose disloyal life 
Hath wrought confusion in the Table 

Round 
Which good King Arthur founded, 

years ago, 
With signs and miracles and wonders, 

there 
At Camelot, ere the coming of the 

Queen." 

Then thought the Queen within her- 
self again, 

" Will the child kill me with her fool- 
ish prate ? " 

But openly she spake and said to her, 

" little maid, shut in by nunnery 
walls, 

What canst thou know of Kings and 
Tables Round, 

Or what of signs and wonders, but the 
signs 

And simple miracles of thy nunnery ? ' 



GUINEVERE. 



361 



To whom the little novice garru- 
lously, 
' Yea, but I know : the land was full 
of signs 

And wonders ere the coming of the 
Queen. 

So said my father, and himself was 
knight 

Of the great Table — at the founding 
of it; 

And rode thereto from Lyonnesse, 
and he said 

That as he rode, an hour or maybe 
twain 

After the sunset, down the coast, he 
heard 

Strange music, and he paused, and 
turning — there, 

All down the lonely coastof Lyonnesse, 

Each with a beacon-star upon his head, 

And with a wild sea-lightabout his feet, 

He saw them — headland after head- 
land flame 

Far on into the rich heart of the west : 

And in the light the white mermaiden 
swam, 

And strong man-breasted things stood 
from the sea, 

And sent a deep sea-voice thro' all the 
hind, 

To which the little elves of chasm and 
cleft 

Made answer, sounding like a distant 
horn. 

So said my father — yea, and further- 
more, 

Next morning, while he past the dim- 
lit woods, 

Himself beheld three spirits mad with 
joy 

I Some dashing down on a tall wayside 
flower, 

That shook beneath them, as the this- 
tle shakes 

When three gray linnets wrangle for 
the seed : 

And still at evenings on before his 
horse 

The flickering fairy-circle wheel'd and 
broke 

flying, and l'ink'd again, and wheel'd 
and broke 



Flying, for all the land was full of life. 
And when at last he came to Camelot, 
A wreath of airy dancers hand-in-hand 
Swung round the lighted lantern of 

the hall ; 
And in the hall itself was such a feast 
As never man had dream'd; for every 

knight 
Had whatsoever meat he long'd for 

served 
By hands unseen ; and even as he said 
Down in the cellars merry bloated 

things 
Shoulder'd the spigot, straddling on 

the butts 
While the wine ran: so glad were 

spirits and men 
Before the coming of the sinful 

Queen." 

Then spake the Queen and some- 
what bitterly, 

" Were they so glad ? ill prophets 
were they all, 

Spirits and men : could none of them 
foresee, 

N*ot even thy wise father with his signs 

And wonders, what has fall'n upon 
the realm 1 " 

To whom the novice garrulously 
again, 

" Yea, one, a bard ; of whom my father 
said, 

Full many a noble war-song had he 
sung, 

Ev'nin the presence of an enemy's 
fleet, 

Between the steep cliff and the com- 
ing wave; 

And many a mystic lay of life and 
death 

Had chanted on the smoky mountain- 
tops, 

When round him bent the spirits of 
the hills 

With all their dewy hair blown back 
like flame : 

So said my father — and that night 
the bard 

Sang Arthur's glorious wars, and 
sang the King 



362 



GUINEVERE. 



As wellnigh more than man, and rail'd 

at those 
Who call'd him the false son of Gor- 

loi's : 
For there was no man knew from 

whence he came ; 
But after tempest, when the long 

wave broke 
All down the thundering shores of 

Bude and Bos, 
There came a day as still as heaven, 

and then 
They found a naked child upon the 
/ sands 

Of dark Tintagil by the Cornish sea ; 
And that was Arthur ; and they fos- 

ter'd him 
Till he by miracle was appro ven King : 
And that his grave should be a mystery 
From all men, like his birth ; and 

could he find 
A woman in her womanhood as great 
As he was in his manhood, then, he 

sang, 
The twain together well might change 

the world. 
But even in the middle of his song 
He f alter'd, and his hand fell from the 

harp, 
And pale he turn'd, and reel'd, and 

would have fall'n, 
But that they stay'd him up ; nor 

would he tell 
His vision ; but what doubt that he 

foresaw 
This evil work of Lancelot and the 

Queen \ " 

Then thought the Queen, " Lo ! 
they have set her on, 

Our simple-seeming Abbess and her 
nuns, 

To play upon me," and bow'd her 
head nor spake. 

Whereat the novice crying, with 
clasp'd hands, 

Shame on her own garrulity garru- 
lously, 

Said the good nuns would check her 
gadding tongue 

Full often, " and, sweet lady, if I seem 

To vex an ear too sad to listen to me, 



Unmannerly, with prattling and the 
tales 

Which my good father told me, check 
me too 

Nor let me shame my father's mem- 
ory, one 

Of noblest manners, tho' himself 
would say 

Sir Lancelot had the noblest ; and he 
died, 

KillM in a tilt, come next, five sum- 
mers back, 

And left me ; but of others who remain, 

And of the two first-famed for 
courtesy — 

And pray you check me if I ask 
amiss — 

But pray you, which had noblest, 
while you moved 

Among them, Lancelot or our lord 
the King 1 " 

Then the pale Queen look'd up and 

answer'd her, 
" Sir Lancelot, as became a noble 

knight, 
Was gracious to all ladies, and the 

same 
In open battle or the tilting-field 
Forbore his own advantage, and the 

King 
In open battle or the tilting-field 
Forbore his own advantage, and these 

two 
Were the most nobly-manner'd men 

of all; 
For manners are not idle, but the fruit 
Of loyal nature, and of noble mind." 

" Yea," said the maid, " be manners 
such fair fruit 1 
Then Lancelot's needs must be a thou- 
sand-fold 
Less noble, being, as all rumor runs, 
The most disloyal friend in all the 
world." 

To which a mournful answer made 
the Queen : 
" closed about by narrowing nun 

nery-walls, 



GUINEVERE. 



363 



What knowest thou of the world, and 

all its lights 
And shadows, all the wealth and all 

the woe 1 
If ever Lancelot, that most noble 

knight, 
Were for one hour less noble than 

himself, 
Pray for him that he scape the doom 

of fire, 
And weep for her who drew him to 

his doom." 



"Yea," said the little novice, "I 

pray for both ; 
But I should all as soon believe that 

his, 
Sir Lancelot's, were as noble as the 

King's, 
As I could think, sweet lady, yours 

would be 
Such as they are, were you the sinful 

Queen." 

So she, like many another babbler, 

hurt 
Whom she would soothe, and harm'd 

where she would heal ; 
For here a sudden flush of wrathful 

heat 
Fired all the pale face of the Queen, 

who cried, 
" Such as thou art be never maiden 

more 
For ever ! thou their tool, set on to 

plague 
And play upon, and harry me, petty spy 
And traitress." When that storm of 

anger brake 
From Guinevere, aghast the maiden 

rose, 
White as her veil, and stood before 

the Queen 
As tremulously as foam upon the 

beach 
Stands in a wind, ready to break and 

fly, 

And when the Queen had added " Get 

thee hence," 
Fled frighted. Then that other left 

alone 



Sigh'd, and began to gather heart 
again, 

Saving in herself, " The simple, fear- 
ful child 

Meant nothing, but my own too-fear- 
ful guilt, 

Simpler than any child, betrays itself. 

But help me, heaven, for surely I 
repent. 

For what is true repentance but in 
thought — 

Not ev'n in inmost thought to think 
again 

The sins that made the past so pleasant 
to us : 

And I have sworn never to see him 
more, 

To see him more." 

And ev'n in saying this, 
Her memory from old habit of the 

mind 
Went slipping back upon the golden 

days 
In which she saw him first, when 

Lancelot came, 
Reputed the best knight and goodliest 

man, 
Ambassador, to lead her to his lord 
Arthur, and led her forth, and far 

ahead 
Of his and her retinue moving, they, 
Rapt in sweet talk or lively, all on 

love 
And sport and tilts and pleasure, 

(for the time 
Was maytime, and as yet no sin was 

dream'd,) 
Rode under groves that look'd a para- 
dise 
Of blossom, over sheets of hyacinth 
That seem'd the heavens upbreaking 

thro' the earth, 
And on from hill to hill, and every day 
Beheld at noon in some delicious 

dale 
The silk pavilions of King Arthur 

raised 
For brief repast or afternoon repose 
By couriers gone before ; and on again, 
Till yet once more ere set of sun they 

saw 



364 



GUINEVERE. 



The Dragon of the great Pendragon- 

ship, 
That crown'd the state pavilion of the 

King, 
Blaze by the rushing brook or silent 

well. 

But when the Queen immersed in 

such a trance, 
And moving thro' the past uncon- 
sciously, 
Came to that point where first she 

saw the King 
Ride toward her from the city, sigh'd 

to find 
Her journey done, glanced at him, 

thought him cold, 
High, self-contain'd, and passionless, 

not like him, 
" Not like my Lancelot " — while she 

brooded thus 
And grew half-guilty in her thoughts 

again, 
There rode an armed warrior to the 

doors. 
A murmuring whisper thro' the nun- 
nery ran, 
Then on a sudden a cry " The King." 

She sat 
Stiff-stricken, listening ; but when 

armed feet 
Thro' the long gallery from the outer 

doors 
Rang coming, prone from off her seat 

she fell, 
And grovell'd with her face against 

the floor : 
There with her milkwhite arms and 

shadowy hair 
She made her face a darkness from 

the King : 
And in the darkness heard his armed 

feet 
Pause by her ; then came silence, then 

a voice, 
Monotonous and hollow like a Ghost's 
Denouncing judgment, but tho' 

changed, the King's : 

" Liest thou here so low, the child 
of one 



I honor'd, happy, dead before thy 

shame ? 
Well is it that no child is born of 

thee. 
The children born of thee are sword 

and fire, 
Red ruin, and the breaking up of 

laws, 
The craft of kindred and the Godless 

hosts 
Of heathen swarming o'er the Northern 

Sea; 
Whom I, while yet Sir Lancelot, my 

right arm 
The mightiest of my knights, abode 

with me, 
Have everywhere about this land of 

Christ 
In twelve great battles ruining over- 
thrown. 
And knowest thou now from whence 

I come — from him, 
From waging bitter war with him : 

and he, 
That did not shun to smite me in 

worse way, 
Had yet that grace of courtesy in him 

left, 
He spared to lift his hand against the 

King 
Who made him knight : but many a 

knight was slain; 
And many more, and all his kith and 

kin 
Clave to him, and abode in his own 

land. 
And many more when Modred raised 

revolt, 
Forgetful of their troth and fealty, 

clave 
To Modred, and a remnant stays with 

me. 
And of this remnant will I leave a 

part, 
True men who love me still, for whom 

I live, 
To guard thee in the wild hour coming 

on, 
Lest but a hair of this low head be 

harm'd. 
Fear not : thou shalt be guarded till 

my death. 



GUINEVERE. 



365 



Howbeit I know, if ancient prophecies 
Have err'd not, that I march to meet 

my doom. 
Thou hast not made my life so sweet 

to me. 
That I the King should greatly care 

to live ; 
For thou hast spoilt the purpose of 

my life. 
Bear with me for the last time while 

I show, 
Ev'n for thy sake, the sin which thou 

hast sinn'd. 
For when the Roman left us, and 

their law 
Relax d its hold upon us, and the 

ways 
Were fill'd with rapine, here and there 

a deed 
Of prowess done redress'd a random 

wrong. 
But I was first of all the kings who 

drew 
The knighthood-errant of this realm 

and all 
The realms together under me, their 

Head, 
In that fair Order of my Table Round, 
A glorious company, the flower of 

men, 
To serve as model for the mighty 

world, 
And be the fair beginning of a time. 
I made them lay their hands in mine 

and swear 
To reverence the King, as if he were 
Their conscience, and their conscience 

as their King, 
To break the heathen and uphold the 

Christ, 
To ride abroad redressing human 

wrongs, 
To speak no slander, no, nor listen to 

it, 
To honor his own word as if his God's, 
To lead sweet lives in purest chastity, 
To love one maiden only, cleave to 

her, 
And worship her by years of noble 

deeds, 
Until they won her ; for indeed I 

knew 



Of no more subtle master under 

heaven 
Than is the maiden passion for a 

maid, 
Not only to keep down the base in 

man, 
But teach high thought, and amiable 

words 
And courtliness, and the desire of 

fame, 
And love of truth, and all that makes 

a man. 
And all this throve before I wedded 

thee, 
Believing, ' lo mine helpmate, one to 

feel 
My purpose and rejoicing in my 

joy/ 
Then came thy shameful sin with 

Lancelot ; 
Then came the sin of Tristram and 

Isolt; 
Then others, following these my 

mightiest knights, 
And drawing foul ensample from fair 

names, 
Sinn'd also, till the loathsome opposite 
Of all my heart had destined did ob- 
tain, 
And all thro' thee ! so that this life of 

mine 
I guard as God's high gift from scathe 

and wrong, 
Not greatly care to lose ; but rather 

think 
How sad it were for Arthur, should he 

live, 
To sit once more within his lonely 

hall, 
And miss the wonted number of my 

knights, 
And miss to hear high talk of noble 

deeds 
As in the golden days before thy sin. 
For which of us, who might be left, 

could speak 
Of the pure heart, nor seem to glance 

at thee? 
And in thy bowers of Camelot or of 

Usk 
Thy shadow still would glide from 

room to room, 



366 



GUINEVERE. 



And I should evermore be vext with 

thee 
In hanging robe or vacant orna- 
ment, 
Or ghostly footfall echoing on the 

stair. 
For think not, tho' thou wouldst not 

love thy lord, 
Thy lord has wholly lost his love for 

thee. 
I am not made of so slight elements. 
Yet must I leave thee, woman, to thy 

shame. 
I hold that man the worst of public 

foes 
"Who either for his own or children's 

sake, 
To save his blood from scandal, lets 

the wife 
Whom he knows false, abide and rule 

the house : 
For being thro' his cowardice allow'd 
Her station, taken everywhere for 

pure, 
She like a new disease, unknown to 

men, 
Creeps, no precaution used, among the 

crowd, 
Makes wicked lightnings of her eyes, 

and saps 
The fealty of our friends, and stirs the 

pulse 
With devil's leaps, and poisons half 

the young. 
Worst of the worst were that man he 

that reigns ! 
Better the King's waste hearth and 

aching heart 
Than thou reseated in thy place of 

light, 
The mockery of my people, and their 

bane." 

He paused, and in the pause she 
crept an inch 

Nearer, and laid her hands about his 
feet. 

Far off a solitary trumpet blew. 

Then waiting by the doors the war- 
horse neigh'd 

As at a friend's voice, and he spake 
again : 



" Yet think not that 1 come to urge 

thy crimes, 
I did not come to curse thee, Guinevere, 
I, whose vast pity almost makes me 

die 
To see thee, laying there thy golden 

head, 
My pride in happier summers, at my 

feet. 
The wrath which forced my thoughts 

on the fierce law, 
The doom of treason and the flaming 

death, 
(When first I learnt thee hidden here) 

is past. 
The pang — which while I weigh'd thy 

heart with one 
Too wholly true to dream untruth in 

thee, 
Made my tears burn — is also past — 

in part. 
And all is past, the sin is sinn'd, and I, 
Lo ! I forgive thee, as Eternal God 
Forgives : do thou for thine own soul 

the rest. 
But how to take last leave of all I 

loved 1 

golden hair, with which I used to 

play 
Not knowing! O imperial-moulded 

form, 
And beauty such as never woman 

wore, 
Until it came a kingdom's curse with 

thee — 

1 cannot touch thy lips, they are not 

mine, 
But Lancelot's : nay, they never were 

the King's. 
I cannot take thy hand; that too is 

flesh, 
And in the flesh thou hast sinn'd; 

and mine own flesh, 
Here looking down on thine polluted, 

cries 
' I loathe thee : ' yet not less, Guine- 
vere, 
For I was ever virgin save for thee, 
My love thro' flesh hath wrought into 

my life 
So far, that my doom is, I love thee 

still. 




" He paused ; and in the pause she crept an inch 
Nearer, and laid her hands about his feet." 

Page 366. 



GUINEVERE. 



367 



Let no man dream but that I love thee 

still. 
Perchance, and so thou purify thy 

soul, 
And so thou lean on our fair father 

Christ, 
Hereafter in that world where all are 

pure 
We two may meet before high God, 

and thou 
Wilt spring to me, and claim me thine, 

and know 
I am thine husband — not a smaller 

soul, 
Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave me 

that, 
I charge thee, my last hope. Now 

must I hence. 
Thro' the thick night I hear the trum- 
pet blow : 
They summon me their King to lead 

mine hosts 
Far down to that great battle in the 

west, 
Where I must strike against the man 

they call 
My sister's son — no kin of mine, who 

leagues 
With Lords of the White Horse, 

heathen, and knights, 
Traitors — and strike him dead, and 

meet myself 
Death, or I know not what mysterious 

doom. 
And thou remaining here wilt learn 

the event; 
But hither shall I never come again, 
Never lie by thy side ; see thee no 

more — 
Farewell ! " 

And while she grovell'd at his feet, 
She felt the King's breath wander o'er 

her neck, 
And in the darkness o'er her fallen 

head, 
Perceived the waving of his hands 

that blest. 

Then, listening till those armed 
steps were gone, 



Rose the pale Queen, and in her an- 
guish found 
The casement: " peradventure," so 

she thought, 
" If I might see his face, and not be 

seen." 
And lo, he sat on horseback at the door ! 
And near him the sad nuns with each 

a light 
Stood, and he gave them charge about 

the Queen, 
To guard and foster her for evermore. 
And while he spake to these his helm 

was lower'd, 
To which for crest the golden dragon 

clung 
Of Britain ; so she did not see the face, 
Which then was as an angel's, but she 

saw, 
Wet with the mists and smitten by the 

lights, 
The Dragon of the great Pendragon- 

ship 
Blaze, making all the night a steam 

of fire. 
And even then he turn'd ; and more 

and more 
The moony vapor rolling round the 

King, 
Who seem'd the phantom of a Giant 

in it, 
Enwound him fold by fold, and made 

him gray 
And grayer, till himself became as mist 
Before her, moving ghostlike to his 

doom. 

Then she stretch'd out her arms and 

cried aloud 
" Oh Arthur ! " there her voice brake 

suddenly, 
Then — as a stream that spouting from 

a cliff 
Fails in mid air, but gathering at the 

base 
Re-makes itself, and flashes down the 

vale — 
Went on in passionate utterance : 

" Gone — my lord! 
Gone thro' my sin to slay and to be 
slain! 



368 



GUINEVERE. 



And he forgave me, and I could not 

speak. 
Farewell ? I should have answer 'd 

his farewell. 
His mercy choked me. Gone, my lord 

the King, 
My own true lord ! how dare I call 

him mine ? 
The shadow of another cleaves to me, 
And makes me one pollution : he, the 

King, 
Call'd me polluted : shall I kill my- 
self ? 
What help in that ? I cannot kill my 

sin, 
If soul be soul; nor can I kill my 

shame ; 
No, nor by living can I live it down. 
The days will grow to weeks, the weeks 

to months, 
The months will add themselves and 

make the years, 
The years will roll into the centuries, 
And mine will ever be a name of scorn. 
I must not dwell on that defeat of 

fame. 
Let the world be ; that is but of the 

world 
What else ? what hope ? I think there 

was a hope, 
Except he mock'd me when he spake 

of hope ; 
His hope he call'd it ; but he never 

mocks, 
For mockery is the fume of little 

hearts. 
And blessed be the King, who hath 

forgiven 
My wickedness to him, and left me 

hope 
That in mine own heart I can live 

down sin 
And be his mate hereafter in the 

heavens 
Before high God. Ah great and gen- 
tle lord, 
Who wast, as is the conscience of a 

saint 
Among his warring senses, to thy 

knights — 
To whom my false voluptuous pride, 

that took 



Full easily all impressions from be- 
low, 
Would not look up, or half-despised 

the height 
To which I would not or I could not 

climb — 
I thought I could not breathe in that 

fine air 
That pure severity of perfect light — 
I wanted warmth and color which I 

found 
In Lancelot — now I see thee what 

thou art, 
Thou art the highest and most human 

too, 
Not Lancelot, nor another. Is there 

none 
Will tell the King I love him tho' so 

late? 
Now — ere he goes to the great Bat- 
tle? none: 
Myself must tell him in that purer 

life, 
But now it were too daring. Ah my 

God, 
What might I not have made of thy 

fair world, 
Had I but loved thy highest creature 

here ? 
It was my duty to have loved the 

highest: 
It surely was my profit had I 

known : 
It would have been my pleasure had 

I seen. 
We needs must love the highest when 

we see it, 
Not Lancelot, nor another." 

Here her hand 

Grasp'd, made her vail her eyes : she 
look'd and saw 

The novice, weeping, suppliant, and 
said to her, 

" Yea, little maid, for am / not for- 
given ? " 

Then glancing up beheld the holy 
nuns 

All round her, weeping ; and her heart 
was loosed 

Within her, and she wept with these 
and said, 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 



369 



"Ye know me then, that wicked 
one, who broke 
The vast design and purpose of the 
King. 

shut me round with narrowing 

nunnery walls, 
Meek maidens, from the voices crying 
'shame.' 

1 must not scorn myself : he loves me 

still. 
Let no one dream but that he loves 

me still. 
So let me, if you do not shudder at me, 
Nor shun to call me sister, dwell with 

you; 
Wear black and white, and be a nun 

like you, 
Fast with your fasts, not feasting with 

your feasts ; 
Grieve with your griefs, not grieving 

at your joys, 
But not rejoicing; mingle with your 

rites; 
Pray and be pray'd for; lie before 

your shrines ; 
Do each low office of your holy 

house ; 
Walk your dim cloister, and distribute 

dole 
To poor sick people, richer in His eyes 
End of " The 



Who ransom'd us, and haler too than 

I; 
And treat their loathsome hurts and 

heal mine own ; 
And so wear out in almsdeed and in 

prayer 
The sombre close of that voluptuous 

day, 
Which wrought the ruin of my lord 

the King." 



She said: they took her t6 them- 
selves ; and she 
Still hoping, fearing "is it yet too 

late 1 " 
Dwelt with them, till in time their 

Abbess died. 
Then she, for her good deeds and her 

pure life, 
And for the power of ministration in 

her, 
And likewise for the high rank she 

had borne, 
Was chosen Abbess, there, an Abbess, 

lived 
For three brief years, and there, an 

Abbess, past 
To where beyond these voices there 

is peace. 
Round Table." 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR 



That story which the bold Sir Bedi- 

vere, 
First made and latest left of all the 

knights, 
Told, when the man was no more than 

a voice 
In the white winter of his age, to 

those 
With whom he dwelt, new faces, 

other minds. 

For on their march to westward, 
Bedivere, 

Who slowly paced among the slumber- 
ing host, 

Heard in his tent the moanings of the 
King: 



"I found Him in the shining of the 

stars, 
I mark'd Him in the flowering of His 

fields, 
But in His ways with men I find Him 

not. 
I waged His wars, and now I pass and 

die. 
O me ! for why is all around us 

here 
As if some lesser god had made the 

world, 
But had not force to shape it as he 

would, 
Till the High God behold it from be- 
yond, 
And enter it, and make it beautiful 1 



370 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 



Or else as if the world were wholly 

fair, 
But that these eyes of men are dense 

and dim, 
And have not power to see it as it is : 
Perchance, because we see not to the 

close ; — 
For I, being simple, thought to work 

His will, 
And have but stricken with the sword 

in vain ; 
And all whereon I lean'd in wife and 

friend 
Is traitor to my peace, and all my 

realm 
Reels back into the beast, and is no 

more. 
My God, thou hast forgotten me in 

my death : 
Nay — God my Christ — I pass but 

shall not die." 

Then, ere that last weird battle in 

the west, 
There came on Arthur sleeping, Ga- 

wain kill'd 
In Lancelot's war, the ghost of Gawain 

blown 
Along a wandering wind, and past his 

ear 
Went shrilling, " Hollow, hollow all 

delight! 
Hail, King ! to-morrow thou shalt pass 

away. 
Farewell ! there is an isle of rest for 

thee. 
And I am blown along a wandering 

wind, 
And hollow, hollow, hollow all de- 
light." 
And fainter onward, like wild birds 

that change 
Their season in the night and wail 

their way 
From cloud to cloud, down the long- 
wind the dream 
Shrill'd; but in going mingled with 

dim cries 
Far in the moonlit haze among the 

hills, 
As of some lonely city sack'd by 

night, 



When all is lost, and wife and child 

with wail 
Pass to new lords ; and Arthur woke 

and call'd, 
" Who spake ? A dream. O light 

upon the wind, 
Thine, Gawain, was the voice — are 

these dim cries 
Thine 1 or doth all that haunts the 

waste and wild 
Mourn, knowing it will go along with 

me?" 

This heard the bold Sir Bedivere 

and spake : 
"O me, my King, let pass whatever 

will, 
Elves, and the harmless glamour of 

the field ; 
But in their stead thy name and glory 

cling 
To all high places like a golden cloud 
For ever : but as yet thou "Shalt not 

pass. 
Light was Gawain in life, and light in 

death 
Is Gawain, for the ghost is as the 

man; 
And care not thou for dreams from 

him, but rise — 
I hear the steps of Modred in the 

west, 
And with him many of thy people, 

and knights 
Once thine, whom thou hast loved, 

but grosser grown 
Than heathen, spitting at their vows 

and thee. 
Right well in heart they know thee 

for the King. 
Arise, go forth and conquer as of old," 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir 

Bedivere : 
" Far other is this battle in the west 
Whereto we move, than when we 

strove in youth, 
And brake the petty kings, and fought 

with Rome, 
Or thrust the heathen from the Roman 

wall, 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 



371 



And shook him thro' the north. Ill 

doom is mine 
To war against my people and my 

knights. 
The king who fights his people fights 

himself. 
And they my knights, who loved me 

once, the stroke 
That strikes them dead is as my death 

to me. 
Yet let us hence, and find or feel a 

way 
Thro' this blind haze, which ever 

since I saw 
One lying in the dust at Almesbury, 
Hath folded in the passes of the 

world." 

Then rose the King and moved his 

host by night, 
And ever push'd Sir Modred, league 

by league, 
Back to the sunset bound of Lyon- 

nesse — 
A land of old upheaven from the abyss 
By fire, to sink into the abyss again ; 
Where fragments of forgotten peoples 

dwelt, 
And the long mountains ended in a 

coast 
Of ever-shifting sand, and far away 
The phantom circle of a moaning sea. 
There the pursuer could pursue no 

more, 
And he that fled no further fly the 

King; 
And there, that day when the great 

light of heaven 
Burn'd at his lowest in the rolling 

year, 
On the waste sand by the waste sea 

they closed. 
Nor ever yet had Arthur fought a 

fight 
Like this last, dim, weird battle of the 

west. 
A deathwhite mist slept over sand and 

sea : 
Whereof the chill, to him who breathed 

it, drew 
Down with his blood, till all his heart 

was cold 



With formless fear ; and ev'n on 

Arthur fell 
Confusion, since he saw not whom he 

fought. 
For friend and foe were shadows in 

the mist, 
And friend slew friend not knowing 

whom he slew; 
And some had visions out of golden 

youth, 
And some beheld the faces of old 

ghosts 
Look in upon the battle ; and in the 

mist 
Was many a noble deed, many a base, 
And chance and craft and strength in 

single fights, 
And ever and anon with host to 

host 
Shocks, and the splintering spear, the 

hard mail hewn, 
Shield-breakings, and the clash of 

brands, the crash 
Of battle-axes on shattered helms, and 

shrieks 
After the Christ, of those who falling 

down 
Look'd up for heaven, and only saw 

the mist ; 
And shouts of heathen and the traitor 

knights, 
Oaths, insult, filth, and monstrous 

blasphemies, 
Sweat, writhings, anguish, laboring of 

the lungs 
In that close mist, and cryings for the 

light, 
Moans of the dying, and voices of the 

dead. 

Last, as by some one deathbed after 
wail 

Of suffering, silence follows, or thro' 
death 

Or deathlike swoon, thus over all that 
shore, 

Save for some whisper of the seething 
seas, 

A dead hush fell ; but when the dolo- 
rous day 

Grew drearier toward twilight falling. 
came 



372 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 



A bitter wind, clear from the North, 

and blew 
The mist aside, and with that wind the 

tide 
Rose, and the pale King glanced 

across the field 
Of battle : but no man was moving 

there ; 
Nor any cry of Christian heard 

thereon, 
Nor yet of heathen ; only the wan 

wave 
Brake in among dead faces, to and 

fro 
Swaying the helpless hands, and up 

and down 
Tumbling the hollow helmets of the 

fallen, 
And shiver'd brands that once had 

fought with Rome, 
And rolling far along the gloomy 

shores 
The voice of days of old and days to 

be. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir 

Bedivere, 
And whiter than the mist that all day 

long 
Had held the field of battle was the 

King : 

" Hearest thou this great voice that 

shakes the world, 
And wastes the narrow realm whereon 

we move, 
And beats upon the faces of the dead, 
My dead, as tho' they had not died 

for me 1 — 
Bedivere, for on my heart hath 

fall'n 
Confusion, till I know not what I am, 
Nor whence I am, nor whether I be 

King. 
Behold, I seem but King among the 

dead." 

Then spake the bold Sir Bedivere ; 

" My King, 
King everywhere! and so the dead 

have kings, 
There also will I worship thee as King. 



Yet still thy life is whole, and still I 

live 
Who love thee ; but who hates thee, 

he that brought 
The heathen back among us, yonder 

stands, 
Modred, unharm'd, the traitor of thine 

house." 

Then spake the King : " My house 

hath been my doom. 
But call not thou this traitor of my 

house 
Who hath but dwelt beneath one roof 

with me. 
My house are rather they who sware 

my vows, 
Yea, even while they brake them, 

own'd me King. 
And well for thee, saying in my dark 

hour, 
When all the purport of my throne 

hath fail'd, 
That quick or dead thou holdest me 

for King. 
King am I, whatsoever be their cry ; 
And one last act of kinghood shalt 

thou see 
Yet, ere I pass." And uttering this 

the King 
Made at the man : then Modred smote 

his liege 
Hard on that helm which many a 

heathen sword 
Had beaten thin ; while Arthur at one 

blow, 
Striking the last stroke with Excali- 

bur, 
Slew him, and all but slain himself, 

he fell. 

So all day long the noise of battle 

roll'd 
Among the mountains by the winter 

sea; 
Until King Arthur's Table, man by 

man, 
Had fall'n in Lyonnesse about their 

lord, 
King Arthur. Then, because his 

wound was deep, 
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 



373 



And bore him to a chapel nigh the 

field, 
A broken chancel with a broken cross, 
That stood on a dark strait of barren 

land : 
On one side lay the Ocean, and on one 
Lav a great water, and the moon was 

full. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir 

Bedivere : 
" The sequel of to-day unsolders all 
The goodliest fellowship of famous 

knights 
Whereof this world holds record. 

Such a sleep 
They sleep — the men I loved. I 

think that we 
Shall never more, at any future time, 
Delight our souls with talk of knight- 
ly deeds, 
Walking about the gardens and the 

halls 
Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 
I perish by this people which I made, — 
Tho' Merlin sware that I should come 

again 
To rule once more ; but, let what will 

be, be, 
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm 
That without help I cannot last till 

morn. 
Thou therefore take my brand Excal- 

libur, 
Which was my pride : for thou re- 

memberest how 
In those old days, one summer noon, 

an arm 
Rose up from out the bosom of the 

lake, 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful, 
Holding the sword — and how I row'd 

across 
And took it, and have worn it, like a 

king; 
And, wheresoever I am sung or 

told 
In af tertime, this also shall be known : 
But now delay not : take Excalibur, 
And fling him far into the middle 

mere : 



Watch what thou seest, and lightly 
bring me word." 

To him replied the bold Sir Bedi- 
vere : 

" It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee 
thus, 

Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' 
the helm — 

A little thing may harm a wounded 
man ; 

Yet I thy hest will all perform at full, 

Watch what I see, and lightly bring 
thee word." 

So saying, from the ruin'd shrine 
he stept, 

And in the moon athwart the place of 
tombs, 

Where lay the mighty bones of an- 
cient men, 

Old knights, and over them the sea- 
wind sang 

Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, 
stepping down 

By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed 
rock, 

Came on the shining levels of the 
lake. 

There drew he forth the brand Ex- 
calibur, 

And o'er him, drawing it, the winter 
moon, 

Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, 
ran forth 

And sparkled keen with frost against 
the hilt : 

For all the haft twinkled with dia- 
mond sparks, 

Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth- 
work 

Of subtlest jewelry. He gazed so 
long 

That both his eyes were dazzled as he 
stood, 

This way and that dividing the swift 
mind, f 

In act to throw : but at the last it 
seein'd 

Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd 

There in the many-knotted waterflags. 



374 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 



That whistled stiff and dry about the 
marge. 

So strode he back slow to the wound- 
ed King. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bed- 

ivere : 
" Hast thou perform'd my mission 

which I gave 1 
What is it thou hast seen? or what 

hast heard ? " 

And answer made the bold Sir Bed- 

ivere : 
" I heard the ripple washing in the 

reeds, 
And the wild water lapping on the 

crag." 

To whom replied King Arthur, faint 

and pale : 
" Thou hast betray'd thy nature and 

thy name, 
Not rendering true answer, as be- 

seem'd 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight: 
For surer sign had follow'd, either 

hand, 
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 
This is a shameful thing for men to lie. 
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go 

again, 
As thou art lief and dear, and do the 

thing 
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring 

me word." 

Then went Sir Bedivere the second 

time 
Across the ridge, and paced beside 

the mere, 
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in 

thought; 
But when he saw the wonder of the 

hilt, 
How curiously and strangely chased, 

he smote 
His palms together, and he cried 

aloud : 

" And if indeed I cast the brand 
away, 



Surely a precious thing, one worthy 

note, 
Should thus be lost for ever from the 

earth, 
Which might have pleased the eyes 

of many men. 
What good should follow this, if this 

were done ? 
What harm, undone ? Deep harm to 

disobey, 
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
Were it well to obey then, if a king 

demand 
An act unprofitable, against himself ? 
The King is sick, and knows not what 

he does. 
What record, or what relic of my lord 
Should be to aftertime, but empty 

breath 
And rumors of a doubt ? But were 

this kept, 
Stored in some treasure-house of 

mighty kings, 
Some one might show it at a joust of 

arms, 
Saying, ' King Arthur's sword, Excali- 

bur, 
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the 

Lake. 
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in 

the deeps 
Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' 
So might some old man speak in the 

aftertime 
To all the people, winning reverence. 
But now much honor and much fame 

were lost." 

So spake he, clouded with his own 
conceit, 
And hid Excalibur the second time, 
And so strode back slow to the wound- 
ed King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, breath- 
ing heavily : 
" What is it thou hast seen 1 or what 
hast heard ? " 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedi- 
vere : 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 



375 



" I heard the water lapping on the era g, 
And the long ripple washing in the 
reeds." 

To whom replied King Arthur, 

much in wrath: 
"Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
Unknightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is 

me ! 
Authority forgets a dying king, 
Laid widow'd of the power in his eye 
That bowed the will. I see thee what 

thou art, 
For thou, the latest-left of all my 

knights, 
In whom should meet the offices of all, 
Thou wouldst betray me for the pre- 
cious hilt ; 
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the 

eyes. 
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, 
And the third time may prosper, get 

thee hence : 
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 
I will arise and slay thee with my 

hands." 

Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, 
and ran, 

And, leaping down the ridges lightly, 
plunged « 

Among the bulrush beds, and clutch'd 
the sword, 

And strongly wheel'd and threw it. 
The great brand 

Made lightnings in the splendor of 
the moon, 

And flashing round and round, and 
whirl'd in an arch, 

Shot like a streamer of the northern 
morn, 

Seen where the moving isles of win- 
ter shock 

By night, with noises of the Northern 
Sea. 

So flash'd and fell the brand Ex- 
calibur: 

But ere he dipt the surface, rose an 
arm 

Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful, 



And caught him by the hilt, and 

brandish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in 

the mere. 
And lightly went the other to the 

King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, drawing 

thicker breath: 
" Now see I by thine eyes that this is 

done. 
Speak out : what is it thou hast heard, 



And answer made the bold Sir Bed- 
ivere : 

" Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest 
the gems 

Should blind my purpose, for I never 
saw, 

Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till 
I die, 

Not tho' I live three lives of mortal 
men, 

So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 

Then with both hands I flung him, 
wheeling him ; 

But when I look'd again, behold an 
arm, 

Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful, 

That caught him by the hilt, and 
brandish'd him 

Three times, and drew him under in 
the mere." 

And answer made King Arthur, 

breathing hard : 
" My end draws nigh ; 'tis time that 

I were gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive 

my weight, 
And bear me to the margin; yet I 

fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I 

shall die." 

So saying, from the pavement he 
half rose, 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his 



376 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 



And looking wistfully with wide blue 
eyes 

As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 

Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears, 

And would have spoken, but he found 
not words ; 

Then took with care, and kneeling on 
one knee, 

O'er both his shoulders drew the lan- 
guid hands, 

And rising bore him thro' the place 
of tombs. 

But, as he walk'd, King Arthur 

panted hard, 
Like one that feels a nightmare on 

his bed 
When all the house is mute. So 

sigh'd the King, 
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, 

" Quick, quick ! 
I fear it is too late, and I shall die." 
But the other swiftly strode from 

ridge to ridge, 
Clothed with his breath, and looking, 

as he walk'd, 
Larger than human on the frozen 

hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a 

cry 
Before. His own thought drove him 

like a goad. 
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy 

caves 
And barren chasms, and all to left 

and right 
The bare black cliff clang'd round 

him, as he based 
His feet on juts of slippery crag that 

rang 
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed 

heels — 
And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake, 
And the long glories of the winter 

moon. 

Then saw they how there hove a 

dusky barge, 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to 

stern, 
Beneath them; and descending they 

were ware 



That all the decks were dense with 

stately forms, 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a 

dream — by these 
Three Queens with crowns of gold: 

and from them rose 
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling 

stars, 
And, as it were one voice, an agony 
Of lamentation, like a wind that 

shrills 
All night in a waste land, where no 

one comes, 
Or hath come, since the making of 

the world. 

Then murmur'd Arthur, "Place me 

in the barge." 
So to the barge they came. There 

those three Queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the 

King, and wept. 
But she, that rose the tallest of them 

all 
And fairest, laid his head upon her 

lap, 
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and 

chafed his hands, 
And call'd him by his name, complain- 
ing loud, 
And dropping bitter tears against a 

brow • 
Striped with dark blood : for all his 

face was white 
And colorless, and like the wither'd 

moon 
Smote by the fresh beam of the 

springing east ; 
And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd 

with drops 
Of onset ; and the light and lustrous 

curls — 
That made his forehead like a rising 

sun 
High from the dais-throne — were 

parch'd with dust , 
Or, clotted into points and hanging 

loose, 
Mix'd with the knightly growth that 

fringed his lips. 
So like a shatter'd column lay the 

King; 






THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 



377 



Not like that Arthur who, with lance 
in rest, 

From spur to plume a star of tourna- 
ment, 

Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and 
charged 

Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 

Then loudly cried the bold Sir 

Bedivere : 
" Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall 

I go? 
Where shall I hide my forehead and 

my eyes ? 
For nowl see tlie true old times are dead, 
When every morning brought a noble 

chance, 
And every chance brought out a noble 

knight. 
Such times have been not since the 

light that led 
The holy Elders with the gift of 

myrrh. 
But now the whole Round Table is 

dissolved 
Which was an image of the mighty 

world, 
And I, the last, go forth companion- 
less, 
And the days darken round me, and 

the years, 
Among new men, strange faces, other 

minds." 

And slowly answer'd Arthur from 

the barge : 
"The old order changeth, yielding 

place to new, 
And Gcd fulfils himself in many ways, 
Lest one good custom should corrupt 

the world. 
Comfort thyself : what comf ortis in me? 
I have lived my life, and that which 

I have done 
May He within himself make pure ! 

but thou, 
If thou shouldst never see my face 

again, 
Pray for my soul. More things are 

wrought by prayer 
Than this world dreams of. Where- 
fore, let thy voice 



Rise like a fountain for me night and 

day. 
For what are men better than sheep 

or goats 
That nourish a blind life within the 

brain, 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands 

of prayer 
Both for themselves and those who 

call them friend ? 
For so the whole round earth is every 

way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet 

of God. 
But now farewell. I am going a long 

way 
With these thou seest — if indeed I go 
(For all my mind is clouded with a 

doubt) — 
To the island-valley of Avilion ; 
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any 

snow, 
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it 

lies 
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with or- 
chard lawns 
And bowery hollows crown'd with 

summer sea, 
Where I will heal me of my grievous 

wound." 

So said he, and the barge with oar 
and sail 

Moved from the brink, like some full- 
breasted swan 

That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, 

Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes 
the flood 

With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir 
Bedivere 

Revolving many memories, till the hull 

Look'd one black dot against the verge 
of dawn, 

And on the mere the wailing died away. 

But when that moan had past for 
evermore, 

The stillness of the dead world's win- 
ter dawn 

Amazed him, and he groan'd, "The 
King is gone." 



378 



TO THE QUEEN. 



And therewithal came on him the weird 

rhyme, 
" From the great deep to the great 

deep he goes." 

Whereat he slowly turn'd and slowly 

clomb 
The last hard footstep of that iron 

crag; 
Thence mark'd the black hull moving 

yet, and cried, 
" He passes to be King among the 

dead, 
And after healing of his grievous 

wound 
He comes again ; but — if he come no 

more — 
O me, be yon dark Queens in yon 

black boat, 
Who shriek'd and wail'd, the three 

whereat we gazed 
On that high day, when, clothed with 

living light, 
They stood before his throne in si- 
lence, friends 



Of Arthur, who should help him at his 
need % " 

Then from the dawn it seem'd there 

came, but faint 
As from beyond the limit of the world, 
Like the last echo born of a great cry, 
Sounds, as if some fair city were one 

voice 
Around a king returning from his wars. 

Thereat once more he moved about, 

and clomb 
Ev'n to the highest he could climb, 

and saw, 
Straining his eyes beneath an arch of 

hand, 
Or thought he saw, the speck that 

bare the King, 
Down that long water opening on the 

deep 
Somewhere far off, pass on and on, 

and go 
From less to less and vanish into light. 
And the new sun rose bringing the new 

year. 



TO THE QUEEN. 



O loyal to the royal in thyself, 
And loyal to thy land, as this to 

thee 

Bear witness, that rememberable day, 
When, pale as yet, and fever-worn, the 

Prince 
Who scarce had pluck'd his flickering 

life again 
From halfway down the shadow of 

the grave, 
Past with thee thro' thy people and 

their love, 
And London rolPd one tide of joy 

thro' all 
Her trebled millions, and loud leagues 

of man 
And welcome ! witness, too, the silent 

cry, 
The prayer of many a race and creed, 

and clime — 
Thunderless lightnings striking under 

sea 



From sunset and sunrise of all thy 

realm, 
And that true North, whereof we lately 

heard 
A strain to shame us " keep you to 

yourselves; 
So loyal is too costly! friends — your 

love 
Is but a burthen : loose the bond, and 

go." 
Is this the tone of empire? here the 

faith 
That made us rulers 1 this, indeed, 

her voice 
And meaning, whom the roar of Hou- 

goumont 
Left mightiest of all peoples under 

heaven ? 
What shock has fool'd her since, that 

she should speak 
So feebly 1 wealthier — wealthier — 

hour by hour ! 



TO THE QUEEN. 



379 



The voice of Britain, or a sinking land, 
Some third-rate isle half-lost among 

her seas ? 
There rang her voice, when the full 

city peal'd 
Thee and thy Prince ! The loyal to 

their crown 
Are loyal to their own far sons, who 

love 
Our ocean-empire with her boundless 

homes 
For ever-broadening England, and her 

throne 
In our vast Orient, and one isle, one 

isle, 
That knows not her own greatness : if 

she knows 
And dreads it we are f all'n. But 

thou, my Queen, 
Not for itself, but thro' thy living love 
For one to whom I made it o'er his 

grave 
Sacred, accept this old imperfect tale, 
New-old, and shadowing Sense at war 

with Soul 
Rather than that gray king, whose 

name, a ghost, 
Streams like a cloud, man-shaped, 

from mountain peak, 
And cleaves to cairn and cromlech 

still; or him 
Of Geoffrey's book, or him of Malle- 

or's, one 
Touch'd by the adulterous finger of a 

time 
That hover'd between war and wan- 
tonness, 
And crownings and dethronements : 

take withal 



Thy poet's blessing, and his trust that 

Heaven 
Will blow the tempest in the distance 

back 
From thine and ours : for some are 

scared, who mark, 
Or wisely or unwisely, signs of storm, 
Waverings of every vane with every 

wind, 
And wordy trucklings to the transient 

hour, 
And fierce or careless looseners of the 

faith, 
And Softness breeding scorn of simple 

life, 
Or Cowardice, the child of lust for gold, 
Or Labor, with a groan and not a voice. 
Or Art with poisonous honey stol'n 

from France, 
And that which knows, but careful for 

itself, 
And that which knows not, ruling that 

which knows 
To its own harm : the goal of this 

great world 
Lies beyond sight : yet — if our slowly- 
grown 
And crown'd Republic's crowning 

common-sense, 
That saved her many times, not fail — 

their fears 
Are morning shadows huger than the 

shapes 
That cast them, not those gloomier 

which forego 
The darkness of that battle in the 

West, 
Where all of high and holy dies 

away. 



THE PRINCESS 



A MEDLEY. 



PROLOGUE. 

Sir Walter Vivian all a summer's 

day 
Gave his broad lawns until the set of 

sun 
Up to the people : thither flock'd at 

noon 
His tenants, wife and child, and 

thither half 
The neighboring borough with their 

Institute 
Of which he was the patron. I was 

there 
From college, visiting the son, — the 

son 
A Walter too, — with others of our 

set, 
Five others : we were seven at Vivian- 
place. 

And me that morning Walter 

show'd the house, 
Greek, set with busts : from vases in 

the hall 
Flowers of all heavens, and lovelier 

than their names, 
Grew side by side ; and on the pave- 
ment lay 
Carved stones of the Abbey-ruin in the 

park, 
Huge Ammonites, and the first bones 

of Time ; 
And on the tables every clime and 

age 
Jumbled together ; celts and calumets, 
Claymore and snowshoe, toys in lava, 

fans 
Of sandal, amber, ancient rosaries, 



Laborious orient ivory sphere in 

sphere, 
The cursed Malayan crease, and 

battle-clubs 
From the isles of palm : and higher on 

the walls, 
Betwixt the monstrous horns of elk 

and deer, 
His own forefathers' arms and armor 

hung. 

And "this " he said " was Hugh's at 

Agincourt ; 
And that was old Sir Ralph's at As- 

calon: 
A good knight he ! we keep a chronicle 
With all about him" — which he 

brought, and I 
Dived in a hoard of tales that dealt 

with knights, 
Half-legend, half-historic, counts and 

kings 
Who laid about them at their wills 

and died ; 
And mixt with these, a lady, one that 

arm'd 
Her own fair head, and sallying thro' 

the gate, 
Had beat her foes with slaughter from 

her walls. 

" miracle of women," said the 
book, 

"O noble heart who, being strait- 
besieged 

By this wild king to force her to his 
wish, 

Nor bent, nor broke, nor shunn'd a 
soldier's death, 



382 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



But now when all was lost or seem'd 

as lost — 
Her stature more than mortal in the 

burst 
Of sunrise, her arm lifted, eyes on 

fire — 
Brake with a blast of trumpets from 

the gate, 
And, falling on them like a thunder- 
bolt, 
She trampled some beneath her 

horses' heels, 
And some were whelm'd with missiles 

of the wall, 
And some were push'd with lances 

from the rock, 
And part were drown'd within the 

wnirling brook : 
O miracle of noble womanhood ! " 

So sang the gallant glorious chroni- 
cle; 

And, I all rapt in this, " Come out," 
he said, 

" To the Abbey : there is Aunt Eliza- 
beth 

And sister Lilia with the rest." We 
went 

(I kept the book and had my finger 
in it) 

Down thro' the park : strange was the 
sight to me ; 

For all the sloping pasture murmur'd, 
sown 

With happy faces and with holiday. 

There moved the multitude, a thou- 
sand heads : 

The patient leaders of their Institute 

Taught them with facts. One rear'd 
a font of stone 

And drew, from butts of water on the 
slope, 

The fountain of the moment, playing, 
now 

A twisted snake, and now a rain of 
pearls, 

Or steep-up spout whereon the gilded 
ball 

Danced like a wisp : and somewhat 
lower down 

A man with knobs and wires and vials 
fired 



A cannon : Echo answer'd in her sleep 
From hollow fields : and here were 

telescopes 
For azure views ; and there a group 

of girls 
In circle waited, whom the electric 

shock 
Dislink'd with shrieks and laughter : 

round the lake 
A little clock-work steamer paddling 

plied 
And shook the lilies : perch'd about 

the knolls 
A dozen angry models jetted steam : 
A petty railway ran : a fire-balloon 
Rose gem-like up before the dusky 

groves 
And dropt a fairy parachute and 

past : 
And there thro' twenty posts of tele- 
graph 
They flash'd a saucy message to and 

fro 
Between the mimic stations ; so that 

sport 
Went hand in hand with Science ; 

otherwhere 
Pure sport: a herd of boys with 

clamor bowl'd 
And stump'd the wicket; babies rolPd 

about 
Like tumbled fruit in grass ; and men 

and maids 
Arranged a country dance, and flew 

thro' light 
And shadow, while the twangling 

violin 
Struck up with Soldier-laddie, and 

overhead 
The broad ambrosial aisles of lofty 

lime 
Made noise with bees and breeze from 

end to end. 

Strange was the sight and smacking 

of the time ; 
And long we gazed, but satiated at 

length 
Came to the ruins. High-arch'd and 

ivy-claspt, 
Of finest Gothic lighter than a 

fire, 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



383 



Thro' one wide chasm of time and 

frost they gave 
The park, the crowd, the house ; but 

all within 
The sward was trim as any garden 

lawn : 
And here wc lit on Aunt Elizabeth, 
And Lilia with the rest, and lady 

friends 
From neighbor seats : and there was 

Ralph himself, 
A broken statue propt against the wall, 
As gay as any. Lilia, wild with sport, 
Half child half woman as she was, 

had wound 
A scarf of orange round the stony 

helm, 
And robed the shoulders in a rosy silk, 
That made the old warrior from his 

ivied nook 
Glow like a sunbeam : near his tomb 

a feast 
Shone, silver-set ; about it lay the 

guests, 
And there we join'd them : then the 

maiden Aunt 
Took this fair day for text, and from 

it preach'd 
An universal culture for the crowd, 
And all things great; but we, un- 

worthier, told 
Of college : he had climb'd across the 

spikes, 
And he had squeezed himself betwixt 

the bars, 
And he had breath'd the Proctor's 

dogs ; and one 
Discuss'd his tutor, rough to common 

men, 
But honeying at the whisper of a lord ; 
And one the Master, as a rogue in 

grain 
Veneer'd with sanctimonious theory. 

But while they talk'd, above their 

heads 1 saw 
The feudal warrior lady-clad; which 

brought 
My book to mind : and opening this I 

read 
Of old Sir Ralph a page or two that 

rang 



With tilt and tourney ; then the tale 

of her 
That drove her foes with slaughter 

from her walls, 
And much I praised her nobleness, 

and " Where," 
Ask'd Walter, patting Lilia's head 

(she lay 
Beside him) " lives there such a 

woman now ? " 



Quick answer'd Lilia " There are 

thousands now 
Such women, but convention beats 

them down : 
It is but bringing up ; no more than 

that : 
You men have done it: how I hate 

you all ! 
Ah, were I something great! I wish I 

were 
Some mighty poetess, I would shame 

you then, 
That love to keep us children ! O I 

wish 
That I were some great princess, I 

would build 
Far off from men a college like a 

man's, 
And I would teach them all that men 

are taught; 
We are twice as quick ! " And here 

she shook aside 
The hand that play'd the patron with 

her curls. 

And one said smiling " Pretty were 

the sight 
If our old halls could change their 

sex, and flaunt 
With prudes for proctors, dowagers 

for deans, 
And sweet girl-graduates in their 

golden hair. 
I think they should not wear our rusty 

gowns, 
But move as rich as Emperor-moths, 

or Ralph 
Who shines so in the corner; yet I 

fear, 
H there were many Lilias in the brood, 



384 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



However deep you might embower the 

nest, 
Some boy would spy it." 

At this upon the sward 
She tapt her tiny silken-sandal'd foot : 
" That's your light way ; but I would 

make it death 
For any male thing but to peep at us." 

Petulant she spoke, and at herself 

she laugh'd; 
A rosebud set with little wilful thorns, 
And sweet as English air could make 

her, she : 
But Walter hail'd a score of names 

upon her, 
And " petty Ogress," and " ungrateful 

Puss," 
And swore he long'd at college, 

only long'd, 
All else was well, for she-society. 
They boated and they cricketed ; they 

talk'd 
At wine, in clubs, of art, of politics ; 
They lost their weeks ; they vext the 

souls of deans ; 
They rode ; they betted ; made a hun- 
dred friends, 
And caught the blossom of the flying 

terms, 
But miss'd the mignonette of Vivian- 
place, 
The little hearth-flower Lilia. Thus 

he spoke, 
Part banter, part affection. 

" True," she said, 
" We doubt not that. O yes, you 

miss'd us much. 
I'll stake my ruby ring upon it you 

did." 

She held it out; and as a parrot 

turns 
Up thro' gilt wires a crafty loving eye, 
And takes a lady's finger with all care, 
And bites it for true heart and not for 

harm, 
So he with Lilia's. Daintily she 

shriek'd 
And wrung it. " Doubt my word 

again ! " he said. 



" Come, listen ! here is proof that you 

were miss'd : 
We seven stay'd at Christmas up to 

read; 
And there we took one tutor as to 

read: 
The hard-grain'd Muses of the cube 

and square 
Were out of season : never man, I 

think, 
So moulder'd in a sinecure as 

he: 
For while our cloisters echo'd frosty 

feet, 
And our long walks were stript as bare 

as brooms, 
We did but talk you over, pledge you 

all 
In wassail ; often, like as many girls — 
Sick for the hollies and the yews of 

home — 
As many little trifling Lilias — play'd 
Charades and riddles as at Christmas 

here, 
And what's my thought and when and 

where and how, 
And often told a tale from mouth to 

mouth 
As here at Christmas." 

She remember'd that : 
A pleasant game, she thought : she 

liked it more 
Than magic music, forfeits, all the 

rest. 
But these — what kind of tales did 

men tell men, 
She wonder'd by themselves ? 

A half -disdain 
Perch'd on the pouted blossom of her 

lips : 
And Walter nodded at me ; "He 

began, 
The rest would follow, each in turn ; 

and so 
We forged a sevenfold story. Kind ? 

what kind r f 
Chimeras, crotchets, Christmas sole- 
cisms, 
Seven-headed monsters only made to 

kill 
Time by the nre in winter." 

' Kill him now, 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



385 



The tyrant ! kill him in the summer 

too," 
Said Lilia ; " Why not now ? " the 

maiden Aunt. 
" Why not a summer's as a winter's 

tale ? 
A tale for summer as befits the time, 
And something it should be to suit the 

place, 
Heroic, for a hero lies beneath, 
Grave, solemn ! " 

Walter warp'd his mouth at this 
To something so mock-solemn, that I 

laugh'd 
And Lilia woke with sudden-shrilling 

mirth 
An echo like a ghostly woodpecker, 
Hid in the ruins ; till the maiden 

Aunt 
(A little sense of wrong had touch'd 

her face 
With color) turn'd to me with "As 

you will ; 
Heroic if you will, or what you will, 
Or be yourself your hero if you will." 

" Take Lilia, then, for heroine " 

clamor'd he, 
" And make her some great Princess, 

six feet high, 
Grand, epic, homicidal; and be you 
The Prince to win her ! " 

"Then follow me, the Prince," 
I answer'd, " each be hero in his turn ! 
Seven and yet one, like shadows in a 

dream. — 
Heroic seems our Princess as re- 
quired — 
But something made to suit with Time 

and place, 
A Gothic ruin and a Grecian house, 
A talk of college and of ladies' rights, 
A feudal knight in silken masquerade, 
And, yonder, shrieks and strange ex- 
periments 
For which the good Sir Ralph had 

burnt them all — 
This tcere a medley ! we should have 

him back 
Who told the ' Winter's tale ' to do it 
for us. 



No matter we will say whatever 

comes. 
And let the ladies sing us, if they will, 
From time to time, some ballad or a 

song 
To give us breathing-space." 

So I began, 
And the rest follow 'd and the women 

sang 
Between the rougher voices of the 

men, 
Like linnets in the pauses of the wind : 
And here I give the story and the 

songs. 



A prince I was, blue-eyed, and fair in 

face, 
Of temper amorous, as the first of 

May, 
With lengths of yellow ringlet, like a 

girl, 
For on my cradle shone the Northern 

star 



There lived an ancient legend in 
our house. 

Some sorcerer, whom a far-off grand- 
sire burnt 

Because he cast no shadow, had fore- 
told. 

Dying, that none of all our blood 
should know 

The shadow from the substance, and 
that one 

Should come to fight with shadows 
and to fall 

For so, my mother said, the story ran. 

And, truly, waking dreams were, more 
or less, 

An old and strange affection of the 
house. 

Myself too had weird seizures, Heaven 
knows what : 

On a sudden in the midst of men and 
day, 

And while I walk'd and talk'd as here- 
tofore, 

I seem'd to move among a world of 
ghosts, 

And feel myself the shadow of a 
dream. 



386 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



Our great court-Galen poised his gilt- 
head cane, 

And paw'd his beard, and mutter'd 
"catalepsy." 

My mother pitying made a thousand 
prayers ; 

My mother was as mild as any saint, 

Half-canonized by all that look'd on 
her, 

So gracious was her tact and tender- 
ness: 

But my good father thought a king a 
king ; 

He cared not for the affection of the 
house ; 

He held his sceptre like a pedant's 
wand 

To lash offence, and with long arms 
and hands 

Reach'd out, and pick'd offenders 
from the mass 

For judgment. 

Now it chanced that I had been, 

While life was yet in bud and blade, 
betroth'd 

To one, a neighboring Princess : she 
to me 

Was proxy-wedded with a bootless calf 

At eight years old ; and still from 
time to time 

Came murmurs of her beauty from 
the South, 

And of her brethren, youths of puis- 
sance ; 

And still I wore her picture by my 
heart, 

And one dark tress ; and all around 
them both 

Sweet thoughts would swarm as bees 
about their queen. 

But when the days drew nigh that 

I should wed, 
My father sent ambassadors with 

furs 
And jewels, gifts, to fetch her : these 

brought back 
A present, a great labor of the loom ; 
And therewithal an answer vague as 

wind : 
Besides, they saw the king ; he took 

the gifts ; 



He said there was a compact; that 

was true : 
But then she had a will; was he to 

blame ? 
And maiden fancies ; loved to live 

alone 
Among her women ; certain, would 

not wed. 

That morning in the presence room 

I stood 
With Cyril and with Florian, my two 

friends : 
The first, a gentleman of broken means 
(His father's fault) but given to starts 

and bursts 
Of revel ; and the last, my other heart, 
And almost my half-self, for still we 

moved 
Together, twinn'd as horse's ear and 

eye. 

Now, while they spake, I saw my 

father's face 
Grow long and troubled like a rising 

moon, 
Inflamed with wrath: he started on 

his feet, 
Tore the king's letter, snow'd it down, 

and rent 
The wonder of the loom thro' warp 

and woof 
From skirt to skirt ; and at the last 

he sware 
That he would send a hundred thou- 
sand men, 
And bring her in a whirlwind : then 

he chew'd 
The thrice-turn'd cud of wrath, and 

cook'd his spleen, 
Communing with his captains of the 

war. 

At last I spoke. " My father, let me 
go. 
It cannot be but some gross error lies 
In this report, this answer of a king, 
Whom all men rate as kind and hos- 
pitable : 
Or, maybe, I myself, my bride once 

seen, 
Whate'er my grief to find her less 
than fame, 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



387 



May rue the bargain made." And 

Florian said : 
" I have a sister at the foreign court, 
Who moves about the Princess; she, 

you know, 
Who wedded with a nobleman from 

thence : 
He, dying lately, left her, as I hear, 
The lady of three castles in that land : 
Thro' her this matter might be sifted 

clean." 
And Cyril whisper'd: "Take me with 

you too." 
Then laughing "what, if these weird 

seizures come 
Upon you in those lands, and no one 

near 
To point you out the shadow from the 

truth ! 
Take me : Til serve you better in a 

strait ; 
I grate on rustv hinges here : " but 

"No!" 
Roar'd the rough king, " you shall not ; 

we ourself 
Will crush her pretty maiden fancies 

dead 
In iron gauntlets : break the council 

up." 

But when the council broke, I rose 

and past 
Thro* the wild woods that hung about 

the town ; 
Found a still place, and pluck'd her 

likeness out; 
Laid it on Mowers, and watch'd it 

lying bathed 
In the green gleam of dewy-tassell'd 

trees : 
What were those fancies ? wherefore 

break her troth 1 
Proud look'd the lips: but while I 

meditated 
A wind arose and rush'd upon the 

South, 
An 1 shook the songs, the whispers, 

and the shrieks 
Of the wild woods together; and a 

Voice 
Went with it, "Follow, follow, thou 

shalt win." 



Then, ere the silver sickle of that 

month 
Became her golden shield, I stole from 

court 
With Cyril and with Florian, unper- 

ceived, 
Cat-footed thro' the town and half in 

dread 
To hear my father's clamor at our 

. backs 
With Ho ! from some bay-window 

shake the night ; 
But all was quiet : from the bastion'd 

walls 
Like threaded spiders, one by one, we 

dropt, 
And flying reach'd the frontier: then 

we crost 
To a livelier land ; and so by tilth 

and grange, 
And vines, and blowing bosks of wil- 
derness, 
We gain'd the mother-city thick with 

towers, 
And in the imperial palace found the 

king. 

His name was Gama; crack'd and 
small his voice, 

But bland the smile that like a wrin- 
kling wind 

On glassy water drove his cheek in 
lines ; 

A little dry old man, without a star, 

Not like a king : three days he feasted 
us, 

And on the fourth I spake of why we 
came, 

And my betroth'd. "You do us, 
Prince," he said, 

Airing a snowy hand and signet 
gem, 

" All honor. We remember love our- 
selves 

In our sweet youth : there did a com- 
pact pass 

Long summers back, a kind of cere- 
mony — 

I think the year in which our olives 
fail'd. 

I would you had her, prince, with all 
my heart, 



388 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



With my full heart: but there were 

widows here, 
Two widows, Lady Psyche, Lady 

Blanche ; 
They fed her theories, in and out of 

place 
Maintaining that with equal hus- 
bandry 
The woman were an equal to the man. 
They harp'd on this; with this our 

banquets rang ; 
Our dances broke and buzz'd in knots 

of talk ; 
Nothing but this ; my very ears were hot 
To hear them : knowledge, so my 

daughter held, 
Was all in all : they had but been, she 

thought, 
As children ; they must lose the child, 

assume 
The woman : then, Sir, awful odes she 

wrote, 
Too awful, sure, for what they treated 

of, 
But all she is and does is awful; 

odes 
About this losing of the child; and 

rhymes 
And dismal lyrics, prophesying change 
Beyond all reason : these the women 

sang; 
And they that know such things — I 

sought but peace ; ' 
No critic I — would call them master- 
pieces : 
They master'd me. At last she begg'd 

a boon, 
A certain summer-palace which I 

have 
Hard by your father's frontier : I said 

no, 
Yet being an easy man, gave it : and 

there, 
All wild to found an University 
For maidens, on the spur she fled ; 

and more 
We know not, — only this : they see 

no men, 
Not e v'n her brother Arac,nor the twins 
Her brethren, tho' they love her, look 

upon her 
As on a kind of paragon ; and I 



(Pardon me saying it) were much loth 

to breed 
Dispute betwixt myself and mine : but 

since 
(And I confess with right) you think 

me bound 
In some sort, I can give you letters to 

her; 
And yet, to speak the truth, I rate 

'your chance 
Almost as naked nothing." 

Thus the king ; 

And I, tho' nettled that he seem'd to 
slur 

With garrulous ease and oily courte- 
sies 

Our formal compact, yet, not less (all 
frets 

But chafing me on fire to find my 
bride) 

Went forth again with both my 
friends. We rode 

Many a long league back to the North. 
At last 

From hills, that look'd across a land 
of hope, 

We dropt with evening on a rustic 
town 

Set in a gleaming river's crescent- 
curve, 

Close at the boundary of the liberties ; 

There, enter'd an old hostel, call'd 
mine host 

To council, plied him with his richest 
wines, 

And show'd the late-writ letters of 
the king. 

He with a long low sibilation, stared 
As blank as death in marble ; then ex- 

claim'd 
Averring it was clear against all rules 
For any man to go : but as his brain 
Began to mellow, "If the king," he 

said, 
" Had given us letters, was he bound 

to speak 1 
The king would bear him out;" and 

at the last — 
The summer of the vine in all his 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



389 



" No doubt that we might make it 

worth his while. 
She once had passed that way ; lie 

heard her speak ; 
She scared him ; life ! he never saw 

the like ; 
She look'd as grand as doomsday and 

as grave : 
And he, he reverenced his liege-lady 

there ; 
He always made a point to post with 

mares; 
His daughter and his housemaid were 

the boys : 
The land, he understood, for miles 

about 
Was till'd by women ; all the swine 

were sows, 
And all the dogs " — 

But while he jested thus, 
A thought flash'd thro' me which I 

clothed in act, 
Remembering how we three presented 

Maid 
Or Nymph, or Goddess, at high tide 

of feast, 
In masque or pageant at my father's 

court. 
We sent mine host to purchase female 

gear; 
He brought it, and himself, a sight to 

shake 
The midriff of despair with laughter, 

holp 
To lace us up, till, each, in maiden 

plumes 
We rustled : him we gave a costly 

bribe 
To guerdon silence, mounted our good 

steeds, 
And boldly ventured on the liberties, j 



We follow'd up the river as we | 
rode, 

And rode till midnight when the col- 
lege lights 

Began to glitter firefly-like in copse 

And linden alley : then we past an 
arch, 

Whereon a woman-statue rose with 
wings I 



From four wing'd horses dark against 
the stars ; 

And some inscription ran along the 
front, 

But deep in shadow : further on 
we gain'd 

A little street half garden and half 
house; 

But scarce could hear each other 
speak for noise 

Of clocks and chimes, like silver ham- 
mers falling 

On silver anvils, and the splash and 
stir 

Of fountains spouted up and shower- 
ing down 

In meshes of the jasmine and the 
rose : 

And all about us peal'd the nightin- 
gale, 

Rapt in her song, and careless of the 
snare. 

There stood a bust of Pallas for a 

sign, 
By two sphere lamps blazon'd like 

Heaven and Earth 
With constellation and with con. 

tinent, 
Above an entry : riding in, we call'd; 
A plump-arm'd Ostleress and a stable 

wench 
Came running at the call, and help'd 

us down. 
Then stept a buxon hostess forth, 

and sail'd, 
Full-blown, before us into rooms which 

gave 
Upon a pillar'd porch, the bases lost 
In laurel : her we ask'd of that and 

this, 
And who were tutors. " Lady 

Blanche," she said, 
" And Lady Psyche." " Which was 

prettiest, 
Best-natured 1 " " Lady Psyche." 

" Hers are we," 
One voice, we cried ; and I sat down 

and wrote, 
In such a hand as when a field of corn 
Bows all its ears before the roaring 

East; 



390 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



"Three ladies of the Northern empire 

pray 
Your Highness would enroll them with 

your own, 
As Lady Psyche's pupils." 

This I seal'd : 
The seal was Cupid bent above a scroll, 
And o'er his head Uranian Venus hung, 
And rais'd the blinding bandage from 

his eyes : 
I gave the letter to be sent with dawn ; 
And then to bed, where half in doze I 

seem'd 
To float about a glimmering night, 

and watch 
A full sea glazed with muffled moon- 
light, swell 
On some dark shore just seen that it 

was rich. 

ii. 

As thro' the land at eve we went, 

And pluck'd the ripen'd ears, 
We fell out, my wife and I, 
O we fell out I know not why, 

And kiss'd again with tears. 
And blessings on the falling out 

That all the more endears, 
When we fall out with those we love 

And kiss again with tears! 
For when we came where lies the child 

We lost in other years, 
There above the little grave, 
O there above the little grave, 

We kiss'd again with tears. 

At break of day the College Portress 

came : 
She brought us Academic silks, in hue 
The lilac, with a silken hood to each, 
And zoned with gold ; and now when 

these were on, 
And we as rich as moths from dusk 

cocoons, 
She, courtesying her obeisance, let us 

know 
The Princess Ida waited : out we paced, 
I first, and following thro' the porch 

that sang 
All round with laurel, issued in a court 
Compact of lucid marbles, boss'd with 

lengths 
Of classic frieze, with ample awnings 

gay 
Betwixt the pillars, and with great 
■ urns of flowers. 



The Muses and the Graces, group'd in 

threes, 
Enring'd a billowing fountain in the 

midst ; 
And here and there on lattice edges 

lay 
Or book or lute ; but hastily we past, 
And up a flight of stairs into the hall. 

There at a board by tome and paper 
sat, 

With two tame leopards couch'd be- 
side her throne 

All beauty compass'd in a female form, 

The Princess ; liker to the inhabitant 

Of some clear planet close upon the 
Sun, 

Than our man's earth ; such eyes were 
in her head, 

And so much grace and power, breath- 
ing down 

From over her arch'd brows, with 
every turn 

Lived thro' her to the tips of her long 
hands, 

And to her feet. She rose her height, 
and said : 

" We give you welcome : not with- 
out-redound 

Of use and glory to yourselves ye 
come, 

The first-fruits of the stranger : after- 
time, 

And that full voice which circles round 
the grave, 

Will rank you nobly, mingled up with 
me. 

What ! are the ladies of your land so 
tall ? " 

" We of the court " said Cyril. " From 
the court " 

She answer'd, "then ye know the 
Prince ? " and he : 

" The climax of his age ! as tho' there 
were 

One rose in all the world, your High- 
ness that, 

He worships your ideal : " she replied : 

" We scarcely thought in our own hall 
to hear 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



391 



This barren verbiage, current among 

men, 
Light coin, the tinsel clink of compli- 
ment. 
Your flight from out your bookless 

wilds would seem 
As arguing love of knowledge and of 

power ; 
Your language proves you still the 

child. Indeed, 
We dream not of him : when we set 

our hand 
To this great work, we purposed with 

ourself 
Never to wed. You likewise will do 

well, 
Ladies, in entering here, to cast and 

fling 
The tricks, which make us toys of 

men, that so, 
Some future time, if so indeed you will, 
You may with those self-styled our 

lords ally 
Your fortunes, justlier balanced, scale 

with scale." 

At those high words, we conscious 
of ourselves, 

Perused the matting; then an officer 

Rose up, and read the statutes, such 
as these : 

Not for three years to correspond with 
home; 

Not for three years to cross the liber- 
ties; 

Not for three years to speak with any 
men; 

And many more, which hastily sub- 
scribed, 

We enter'd on the boards : and " Now," 
she cried, 

" Ye are green wood, see ye warp not. 
Look, our hall ! 

Our statues ! ~ not of those that men 
desire, 

Sleek Odalisques, or oracles of mode, 

Nor stunted squaws of West or East; 
but she 

That taught the Sabine how to rule, 
and she 

The foundress of the Babylonian wall, 

The Carian Artemisia strong in war, 



The Khodope, that built the pyramid, 

Clelia, Cornelia, with the Palmyrene 

That fought Aurelian, and the Roman 
brows 

Of Agrippina. Dwell with these, and 
lose 

Convention, since to look on noble 
forms 

Makes noble thro' the sensuous organ- 
ism 

That which is higher. O lift your 
natures up : 

Embrace our aims : work out your 
freedom. Girls, 

Knowledge is now no more a fountain 
seal'd : 

Drink deep, until the habits of the 
slave, 

The sins of emptiness, gossip and 
spite 

And slander, die. Better not be at all 

Than not be noble. Leave us: you 
may go : 

To-day the Lady Psyche will harangue 

The fresh arrivals of the week before; 

For they press in from all the prov- 
inces, 

And fill the hive." 

She spoke, and bowing waved 

Dismissal : back again we crost the 
court 

To Lady Psyche's : as we enter'd in, 

There sat along the forms, like morn- 
ing doves 

That sun their milky bosoms on the 
thatch, 

A patient range of pupils ; she herself 

Erect behind a desk of satin-wood, 

A quick brunette, well-moulded, fal- 
con-eyed, 

And on the hither side, or so she 
look'd, 

Of twenty summers. At her left, a 
child, 

In shining draperies, headed like a 
star, 

Her maiden babe, a double April 
old, 

Agla'ia slept. We sat: the Lady 
glanced : 

Then Florian, but no livelier than the 
dame 



392 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



That whisper'd "Asses' ears," among 

the sedge, 
" My sister." " Comely, too, by all 

that's fair," 
Said Cyril. " O hush, hush ! " and she 

began. 

" This world was once a fluid haze 

of light, 
Till toward the centre set the starry 

tides, 
And eddied into suns, that wheeling 

cast 
The planets : then the monster, then 

the man ; 
Tattoo'd or woaded, winter-clad in 

skins, 
Raw from the prime, and crushing 

down his mate ; 
As yet we find in barbarous isles, and 

here 
Among the lowest." 

Thereupon she took 
A bird's-eye view of all the ungracious 

past ; 
Glanced at the legendary Amazon 
As emblematic of a nobler age ; 
Appraised the Lycian custom, spoke 

of those 
That lay at wine with Lar and Lucu- 

mo; 
Ran down the Persian, Grecian, Ro- 
man lines 
Of empire, and the woman's state in 

each, 
How far from just; till warming with 

her theme 
She fulmined out her scorn of laws 

Salique 
And little-footed China, touch'd on 

Mahomet 
With much contempt, and came to 

chivalry : 
When some respect, however slight, 

was paid 
To woman, superstition all awry : 
However then commenced the dawn : 

a beam 
Had slanted forward, falling in a 

land 
Of promise; fruit would follow. Deep, 

indeed, 



Their debt of thanks to her who first 

had dared 
To leap the rotten pales of prejudice, 
Disyoke their necks from custom, and 

assert 
None lordlier than themselves but 

that which made 
Woman and man. She had founded; 

they must build. 
Here might they learn whatever men 

were taught : 
Let them not fear: some said their 

heads were less : 
Some men's were small ; not they the 

least of men ; 
For often fineness compensated size : 
Besides the brain was like the hand, 

and grew 
With using ; thence the man's, if more 

was more ; 
He took advantage of his strength to 

be 
First in the field: some ages had been 

lost; 
But woman ripen'd earlier, and her 

life 
Was longer ; and albeit their glorious 

names 
Were fewer, scatter'd stars, yet since 

in truth 
The highest is the measure of the man, 
And not the Kaffir, Hottentot, Malay, 
Nor those horn-handed breakers of 

the glebe, 
But Homer, Plato, Verulam ; even so 
With woman : and in arts of govern- 
ment 
Elizabeth and others ; arts of war 
The peasant Joan and others ; arts of 

grace 
Sappho and others vied with any man ; 
And, last not least, she who had left 

her place, 
And bow'd her state to them, that they 

might grow 
To use and power on this Oasis, lapt 
In the arms of leisure, sacred from 

the blight 
Of ancient influence and scorn. 

At last 
She rose upon a wind of prophecy 
Dilating on the future ; " everywhere 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



393 



Two heads in council, two beside the 

hearth, 
Two in the tangled business of the 

world, 
Two in the liberal offices of life, 
Two plummets dropt for one to sound 

the abyss 
Of science, and the secrets of the 

mind : 
Musician, painter, sculptor, critic, 

more : 
And everywhere the broad and boun- 
teous Earth 
Should bear a double growth of those 

rare souls, 
Poets, whose thoughts enrich the 

blood of the world." 



She ended here, and beckon'd us : 
the rest 

Farted ; and, glowing full-faced wel- 
come, she 

Began to address us, and was moving 
on 

In gratulation, till as when a boat 

Tacks, and the slacken'd sail flaps, 
all her voice 

Faltering and fluttering in her throat, 
she cried 

u My brother ! " " Well, my sister." 
" 0," she said, 

" What do you here ? and in this 
dress 3 and these ? 

Why who are these ? a wolf within 
the fold ! 

A pack of woives ! the Lord be gra- 
cious to me ! 

A plot, a plot, a plot, to ruin all!" 

" No plot, no plot," he answer'd. 
" Wretched boy, 

How saw you not the inscription on 
the gate, 

Let no max enter in on pain of 

DBATH 3 " 

"And if I had," he answer'd, "who 

could think 
The softer Adams of your Academe, 
O sister, Sirens tho' they be, were 

>uch 
As chanted on the blanching bones of 

men I " 



"But you will find it otherwise" she 

said. 
" You jest : ill jesting with edge-tools ! 

my vow 
Binds me to speak, and O that iron 

will, 
That axelike edge unturnable, our 

Head, 
The Princess." " Well then, Psyche, 

take my life, 
And nail me like a weasel on a grange 
For warning : bury me beside the 

gate, 
And cut this epitaph above my bones ; 
Here lies a brother by a sister slain, 
All for the common good of womankind" 
" Let me die too," said Cyril, " having 

seen 
And heard the Lady Psyche." 

I struck in: 
" Albeit so mask'd, Madam, I love the 

truth ; 
Receive it; and in me behold the 

Prince 
Your countryman, affianced years ago 
To the Lady Ida : here, for here she 

was, 
And thus (what other way was left) I 

came." 
" O Sir, O Prince, I have no country ; 

none ; 
If any, this ; but none. Whate'er I 

was 
Disrooted, what I am is grafted here. 
Affianced, Sir ? love-whispers may 

not breathe 
Within this vestal limit, and how 

should I, 
Who am not mine, say, live : the 

thunder-bolt 
Hangs silent ; but prepare : I speak ; 

it falls." 
" Yet pause," I said : " for that in- 
scription there, 
I think no more of deadly lurks therein, 
Than in a clapper clapping in a garth, 
To scare the fowl from fruit : if more 

there be, 
If more and acted on, what follows 1 

war; 
Your own work marr'd : for this your 

Academe, 



394 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



Whichever side be Victor, in the hal- 
loo 

Will topple to the trumpet down, and 
pass 

With all fair theories only made to 
gild 

A stormless summer." " Let the 
Princess judge 

Of that " she said : " farewell, Sir — 
and to you. 

I shudder at the sequel, but I go." 

" Are you that Lady Psyche," I re- 

join'd, 
" The fifth in line from that old Flo- 

rian, 
Yet hangs his portrait in my father's 

hall 
(The gaunt old Baron with his beetle 

brow 
Sun-shaded in the heat of dusty fights) 
As he bestrode my Grandsire, when he 

fell, 
And all else fled : we point to it, and 

we say, 
The loyal warmth of Florian is not 

cold, 
But branches current yet in kindred 

veins." 
" Are you that Psyche," Florian add- 
ed : " she 
With whom I sang about the morning 

hills, 
Flung ball, flew kite, and raced the 

purple fly, 
And snared the squirrel of the glen ? 

are you 
That Psyche, wont to bind my throb- 
bing brow, 
To smoothe my pillow, mix the foam- 
ing draught 
Of fever, tell me pleasant tales, and 

read 
My sickness down to happy dreams ? 

are you 
That brother-sister Psyche, both in 

one 1 
You were that Psyche, but what are 

you now 1 " 
" You are that Psyche," Cyril said, 

" for whom 
I would be that for ever which I seem. 



Woman, if I might sit beside your feet, 
And glean your scatter'd sapience." 

Then once more, 
" Are you that Lady Psyche," I began, 
" That on her bridal morn before she 

past 
From all her old companions, when 

the king 
Kiss'd her pale cheek, declared that 

ancient ties 
Would still be dear beyond the south- 
ern hills ; 
That were there any of our people 

there 
In want or peril, there was one to hear 
And help them 1 look ! for such are 

these and I." 
" Are you that Psyche," Florian ask'd, 

" to whom, 
In gentler days, your arrow-wounded 

fawn 
Came flying while you sat beside the 

well ? 
The creature laid his muzzle on your 

lap, 
And sobb'd, and you sobb'd with it, 

and the blood 
Was sprinkled on your kirtle, and you 

wept. 
That was fawn's blood, not brother's, 

yet you wept. 
O by the bright head of my little 

niece, 
You were that Psyche, and what are 

you now ? " 
"You are that Psyche," Cyril said 

again, 
" The mother of the sweetest little 

maid, 
That ever crow'd for kisses." 

" Out upon it ! " 
She answer'd, " peace ! and why should 

I not play 
The Spartan Mother with emotion, be 
The Lucius Junius Brutus of my kind ? 
Him you call great : he for the com- 
mon weal, 
The fading politics of mortal Rome, 
As I might slay this child, if good 

need were, 
Slew both his sons : and I, shall I, on 

whom 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



395 



The secular emancipation turns 

Of half this world, be swerved from 
right to save 

A prince, a brother ? a little will I 
yield. 

Best so, perchance, for us, and well 
for you. 

hard, when love and duty clash ! I 
fear 

My conscience will not count me fleck- 
less ; yet — 

Hear my conditions : promise (other- 
wise 

You perish) as you came, to slip away 

To-day, to-morrow, soon : it shall be 
said, 

These women were too barbarous, 
would not learn ; 

They fled, who might have shamed 
us : promise, all." 

What could we else, we promised 

each ; and she, 
Like some wild creature newly-caged, 

commenced 
A to-and-fro, so pacing till she paused 
By Florian ; holding out her lily 

arms 
Took both his hands, and smiling 

faintly said : 
" I knew you at the first : tho' you 

have grown 
You scarce have alter'd : I am sad and 

glad 
To see you, Florian. I give thee to 

death, 
My brother ! it was duty spoke, not I. 
My needful seeming harshness, pardon 

it. 
Our mother, is she well ? " 

With that she kiss'd 
His forehead, then, a moment after, 

clung 
About him, and betwixt them blos- 

som'd up 
From out a common vein of memory 
Sweet household talk, and phrases of 

the hearth, 
And far allusion, till the gracious 

dews 
Began to glisten and to fall: and 

while 



They stood, so rapt, we gazing, came 

a voice, 
" I brought a message here from Lady 

Blanche." 
Back started she, and turning round 

we saw 
The Lady Blanche's daughter where 

she stood, 
Melissa s with her hand upon the lock, 
A rosy blonde, and in a college gown, 
That clad her like an April daffodilly 
(Her mother's color) with her lips 

apart, 
And all her thoughts as fair within 

her eyes, 
As bottom agates seen to wave and 

float 
In crystal currents of clear morning 

seas. 

So stood that same fair creature at 

the door. 
Then Lady Psyche, "Ah — Melissa — 

you! 
You heard us ? " and Melissa, " 

pardon me 
I heard, I could not help it, did not 

wish : 
But, dearest Lady, pray you fear me 

not, 
Nor think I bear that heart within my 

breast, 
To give three gallant gentlemen to 

death." 
" I trust you," said the other, " for 

we two 
Were always friends, none closer," elm 

and vine : 
But yet your mother's jealous tem- 
perament — 
Let not your prudence, dearest, 

drowse, or prove 
The Dana'id of a leaky vase, for fear 
This whole foundation ruin, and I lose 
My honor, these their lives." "Ah, 

fear me not" 
Replied Melissa ; "no — I would not 

tell, 
No, not for all Aspasia's cleverness, 
No, not to answer, Madam, all those 

hard things 
That Sheba came to ask of Solomon.' 



396 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



" Be it so " the other, " that we still 

may lead 
The new light up, and culminate in 

peace, 
For Solomon may come to Sheha yet." 
Said Cyril, " Madam, he the wisest 

man 
Feasted the woman wisest then, in 

halls 
Of Lebanonian cedar : nor should you 
(Tho* Madam you should answer, we 

would ask) 
Less welcome find among us, if you 

came 
Among us, debtors for our lives to you, 
Myself for something more." He said 

not what, 
But "Thanks," she answer'd "Go: 

we have been too long 
Together : keep your hoods about the 

face ; 
They do so that affect abstraction 

here. 
Speak little ; mix not with the rest ; 

and hold 
Your promise : all, I trust, may yet 

be well." 

We turn'd to go, but Cyril took the 

child, 
And held her round the knees against 

his waist. 
And blew the swoll'n cheek of a 

trumpeter, 
While Psyche watch'd them, smiling, 

and the child 
Push'd her fiat hand against his face 

and laugh'd ; 
And thus our conference closed. 

And then we stroll'd 
For half the day thro' stately theatres 
Bench'd crescent-wise. In each we 

sat, we heard 
The grave Professor. On the lecture 

slate 
The circle rounded under female 

hands 
With flawless demonstration : f ollow'd 

then 
A classic lecture, rich in sentiment, 
With scraps of thundrous Epic lilted 

out 



By violet-hooded Doctors, elegies 
And quoted odes, and jewels five- 

words-long 
That on the stretch'd forefinger of all 

Time 
Sparkle for ever : then we dipt in all 
That treats of whatsoever is, the state, 
The total chronicles of man, the mind, 
The morals, something of the frame, 

the rock, 
The star, the bird, the fish, the shell, 

the flower, 
Electric, chemic laws, and all the rest, 
And whatsoever can be taught and 

known ; 
Till like three horses that have broken 

fence, 
And glutted all night long breast- 
deep in corn, 
We issued gorged with knowledge, 

and I spoke : 
" Why, Sirs, they do all this as well 

as we." 
" They hunt old trails," said Cyril, 

" very well ; 
But when did woman ever yet in- 
vent ? " 
" Ungracious ! " answer'd Florian ; 

" have you learnt 
No more from Psyche's lecture, you 

that talk'd 
The trash that made me sick, and 

almost sad ? " 
" trash," he said, " but with a ker- 
nel in it. 
Should I not call her wise, who made 

me wise ? 
And learnt ? I learnt more from her 

in a flash, 
Than if my brainpan were an empty 

hull, 
And every Muse tumbled a science in. 
A thousand hearts lie fallow in these 

halls, 
And round these halls a thousand 

baby loves 
Fly twanging headless arrows at the 

hearts, 
Whence follows many a vacant pang ; 

butO 
With me, Sir, enter'd in the bigger 

boy, 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



397 



The Head of all the golden-shafted 

tirm. 
The long-limb'd lad that had a Psyche 

too ; 
He cleft me thro' the stomacher; and 

now 
What think you of it, Florian ? do I 

chase 
The substance or the shadow \ will it 

hold ' 
1 have no sorcerer's malison on me, 
No ghostly hauntings like his High- 
ness. I 
Flatter myself that always every- 
where 
I know the substance when' I see it. 

Well, 
Are castles shadows ? Three of them a 

Is she 
The sweet proprietress a shadow ? If 

not. 
Shall those three castles patch my 

tatter'd coat ? 
For dear are those three castles to my 

wants. 
And dear is sister Psyche to my heart, 
And two dear things are one of double 

worth, 
And much I might have said, but that 

my zone 
Unmann'd me : then the Doctors ! O 

to hear 
The Doctors ! O to watch the thirsty 

plants 
Imbibing ! once or twice I thought to 

roar, 
To break my chain, to shake my 

mane : but thou, 
Modulate me, Soul of mincing mim- 
icry ! 
Make liquid treble of that bassoon, 

my throat ; 
Abase those eyes that ever loved to 

meet 
Star-sisters answering under crescent 

brows ; 
Abate the stride, which speaks of 

man, and loose 
A flying charm of blushes o'er this 

cheek, 
Where they like swallows coming out 

of time 



Will wonder why they came : but 

hark the bell 
For dinner, let us go ! " 

And in we stream'd 
Among the columns, pacing staid and 

still 
By twos and threes, till all from end 

to end 
With beauties every shade of brown 

and fair 
In colors gayer than the morning mist, 
The long hall glitter 'd like a bed of 

flowers. 
How might a man not wander from 

his wits 
Pierced thro' with eyes, but that I 

kept mine own 
Intent on her, who rapt in glorious 

dreams, 
The second-sight of some Astrsean age, 
Sat compass'd with professors : they, 

the while, 
Discuss'd a doubt and tost it to and 

fro: "f 

A clamor thicken'd, mixt with inmost 

terms 
Of art and science: Lady Blanche 

alone 
Of faded form and haughtiest linea- 
ments, 
With all her autumn tresses falsely 

brown, 
Shot sidelong daggers at us, a tiger-cat 
In act to spring. 

At last a solemn grace 
Concluded, and we sought the gardens : 

there 
One walk'd reciting by herself, and 

one 
In this hand held a volume as to read, 
And smoothed a petted peacock down 

with that : 
Some to a low song oar'd a shallop by, 
Or under arches of the marble bridge 
Hung, shadow'd from the heat: some 

hid and sought 
In the orange thickets : others tos* a 

ball 
Above the fountain- jets, and back 

again 
With laughter : others lay about the 

lawns, 



398 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 



Of the older sort, and murmur'd that 

their May- 
Was passing : what was learning unto 

them? 
They wish'd to marry; they could 

rule a house ; 
Men hated learned women: but we 

three 
Sat muffled like the Fates ; and often 

came 
Melissa hitting all we saw with shafts 
Of gentle satire, kin to charity, 
That harm'd not : then day droopt ; 

the chapel bells 
Call'd us : we left the walks ; we mixt 

with those 
Six hundred maidens clad in purest 

white, 
Before two streams of light from wall 

to wall, 
While the great organ almost burst 

his pipes, 
Groaning for power, and rolling thro' 

the court 
A long melodious thunder to the sound 
Of solemn psalms, and silver litanies, 
The work of Ida, to call down from 

Heaven 
A blessing on her labors for the world. 

in. 

Sweet and low, sweet and low, 

"Wind of the western sea, 
Low, low, breathe and blow, 

Wind of the western sea! 
Over the rolling waters go, 
Come from the dying moon, and blow, 

Blow him again to me ; 
While my little one, while my pretty one, 
sleeps. 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, 
Father will come to thee soon ; 

Rest, rest, on mother's breast, 
Father will come to thee soon; 

Father will come to his babe in the nest, 

Silver sails all out of the west 
Under the silver moon : 

Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, 
sleep. 

Morn in the white wake of the morn- 
ing star 

Came furrowing all the orient into 
gold. 



We rose, and each by other drest with 

care 
Descended to the court that lay three 

parts 
In shadow, but the Muses' heads were 

touch'd 
Above the darkness from their native 

East. 

There while we stood beside the fount, 

and watch'd 
Or seem'd to watch the dancing bub- 
ble, approach'd 
Melissa, tinged with wan from lack of 

sleep, 
Or grief, 'and glowing round her dewy 

eyes 
The circled Iris of a night of tears ; 
" And fly," she cried, " O fly, while 

yet you may ! 
My mother knows:" and when I 

ask'd her " how," 
" My fault," she wept, " my fault ! and 

yet not mine ; 
Yet mine in part. O hear me, pardon 

me. 
My mother, 'tis her wont from night 

to night 
To rail at Lady Psyche and her side. 
She says the Princess should have 

been the Head, 
Herself and Lady Psyche the two 

arms ; 
And so it was agreed when first they 

came; 
But Lady Psyche was the right hand 

now, 
And she the left, or not, or seldom 

used; 
Hers more than half the students, all 

the love. 
And so last night she fell to canvass 

you: 
Her countrywomen ! she did not envy 

her. 
' Who ever saw such wild barbarians 1 
Girls 1 — more like men ! ' and at these 

words the snake, 
My secret, seem'd to stir within my 

breast ; 
And oh, Sirs, could I help it, but my 

cheek 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



399 



Began to burn and burn, and her lynx 

eye 
To fix and make me hotter, till she 

laugh'd : 
'0 marvellously modest maiden, you ! 
Men! girls, like men! why, if they 

had been men 
You need not set your thoughts in 

rubric thus 
For wholesale comment.' Pardon, I 

am shamed 
That I must needs repeat for my 

excuse 
What looks so little graceful : ' men ' 

(for still 
My mother went revolving on the 

word) 
1 And so they are, — very like men 

indeed — 
And with that woman closeted for 

hours ! ' 
Then came these dreadful words out 

one by one, 
' Why — these — are — men : ' I shud- 

der'd : ' and you know it.' 
* O ask me nothing,' I said : ' And 

she knows too, 
And she conceals it.' So my mother 

clutch'd 
The truth at once, but with no word 

from me ; 
And now thus early risen she goes to 

inform 
The Princess : Lady Psyche will be 

crush'd ; 
But you may yet be saved, and there- 
fore fly : 
But heal me with your pardon ere you 

go" 

" What pardon, sweet Melissa, for a 

blush ? " 
Said Cyril : " Pale one, blush again : 

than wear 
Those lilies, better blush our lives 

away. 
Yet let us breathe for one hour more 

in Heaven " 
He added, " lest some classic Angel 

speak 
In scorn of us, ' They mounted, Gany- 

medes, 



To tumble, Vulcans, on the second 

morn.' 
But I will melt this marble into wax 
To yield us farther furlough : " and he 

went. 

Melissa shook her doubtful curls, 

and thought 
He scarce would prosper. " Tell us," 

Florian ask'd, 
" How grew this feud betwixt the 

right and left." 
" O long ago," she said, " betwixt these 

two 
Division smoulders hidden; 'tis my 

mother, 
Too jealous, often fretful as the wind 
Pent in a crevice : much I bear with 

her : 
I never knew my father, but she says 
(God help her) she was wedded to a 

fool; 
And still she rail'd against the state 

of things. 
She had the care of Lady Ida's youth, 
And from the Queen's decease she 

brought her up. 
But when your sister came she won 

the heart 
Of Ida : they were still together, grew 
(For so they said themselves) inoscu- 
lated ; 
Consonant chords that shiver to one 

note ; 
One mind in all things : yet my mother 

still 
Affirms your Psyche thieved her the- 
ories, 
And angled with them for her pupil's 

love : 
She calls her plagiarist ; I know not 

what : 
But I must go : I dare not tarry," and 

light, 
As flies the shadow of a bird, she fled. 

Then murmur'd Florian gazing after 

her, 
" An open-hearted maiden, true and 

pure. 
If 1 could love, why this were she 

how pretty 



400 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



Her blushing was, and how she blush 'el 

again, 
As if to close with Cyril's random 

wish : 
Not like your Princess cramm'd with 

erring pride, 
Nor like poor Psyche whom she drags 

in tow." 

" The crane," I said, " may chatter 

of the crane, 
The dove may murmur of the dove, 

but I 
An eagle clang an eagle to the sphere. 
My princess, my princess ! true she 

errs, 
But in her own grand way : being her- 
self 
Three times more noble than three 

score of men, 
She sees herself in every woman else, 
And so she wears her error like a 

crown 
To blind the truth and me : for her, 

and her, 
Hebes are they to hand ambrosia, mix 
The nectar ; but — ah she — whene'er 

she moves 
The Samian Here rises and she speaks 
A Memnon smitten with the morning 

Sun." 

So saying from the court we paced, 
and gain'd 

The terrace ranged along the North- 
ern front, 

And leaning there on those balusters, 
high 

Above the empurpled champaign, 
drank the gale 

That blown about the foliage under- 
neath, 

And sated with the innumerable rose, 

Beat balm upon our eyelids. Hither 
came 

Cyril, and yawning "0 hard task," 
he cried; 

" No fighting shadows here ! I forced 
a way 

Thro' solid opposition crabb'd and 
gnarl'd. 



Better to clear prime forests, heave 

and thump 
A league of street in summer solstice 

elown, 
Than hammer at this reverend gentle- 
woman. 
I knock'el and, bidden, enter'd ; found 

her there 
At point to move, and settled in her 

eyes 
The green malignant light of coming 

storm. 
Sir, I was courteous, every phrase 

well-oil'd, 
As man's could be ; yet maiden-meek 

I pray'd 
Concealment : she demanded who we 

were, 
And why we came ? I fabled nothing 

fair, 
But, your example pilot, told her all. 
Up went the hush'd amaze of hand 

and eye. 
But when I dwelt upon your old affi- 
ance, 
She answer'd sharply that I talk'd 

astray. 
I urged the fierce inscription on the 

gate, 
And our three lives. True — we had 

limed ourselves 
With open eyes, and we must take 

the chance. 
But such extremes, I told her, well 

might harm 
The woman's cause. ' Not more than 

now,' she said, 
' So puddled as it is with favoritism.' 
I tried the mother's heart. Shame 

might befall 
Melissa, knowing, saying not she 

knew : 
Her answer was ' Leave me to deal 

with that.' 
I spoke of war to come and many 

deaths, 
And she replied, her duty was to 

speak, 
And duty duty, clear of consequences. 
I grew discouraged, Sir ; but since I 

knew 
No rock so hard but that a little wave 



THE rRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



401 



May beat admission in a thousand Of those tame leopards. Kittenlikc 

years, he roll'd 

I recommenced ; ' Decide not ere you And paw'd about her sandal. I drew 

near ; 
I gazed. On a sudden my strange 

seizure came 
Upon me, the weird vision of our 

house : 
The Princess Ida seem'd a hollow 

show, 
Her gay-furr'd cats a painted fantasy, 
Her college and her maidens, empty 

masks, 
And I myself the shadow of a dream, 
For all things were and were not. Yet 

I felt 
My heart beat thick with passion and 

with awe; 
Then from my breast the involuntary 

sigh 
Brake, as she smote me with the light 

of eyes 
That lent my knee desire to kneel, and 

shook 
My pulses, till to horse we got, and so 
Went forth in long retinue following 

up 
The river as it narrow'd to the hills. 



pause. 

1 rind you here but in the second place, 

Some say the third — the authentic 
foundress you. 

I offer boldly : we will seat you high- 
est : 

Wink at our advent : help my prince 
to gain 

His rightful bride, and here I promise 
you 

Some palace in our land, where you 
shall reign 

The head and heart of all our fair she- 
world. 

And your great name flow on with 
broadening time 

For ever.' Well, she balanced this a 
little. 

And told me she would answer us to- 
day, 

Meantime be mute : thus much, nor 
more I gain'd." 

He ceasing, came a message from 

the Head. 
" That afternoon the Princess rode to 

take 
The dip of certain strata to the North. 
Would we go with her ? we should find 

the land 
Worth seeing ; and the river made a 

fall 
Out yonder : " then she pointed on to 

where 
A double hill ran up his furrowy forks 
Beyond the thick-leaved platans of 

the vale. 



Agreed to, this, the day fled on thro' 

all 
Its range of duties to the appointed 

hour. 
Then summon'd to the porch we went. 

She stood 
Among her maidens, higher by the 

head, 
Her back against a pillar, her foot on 

one 



I rode beside her and to me she 
said: 
" O friend, we trust that you esteem'd 

us not 
Too harsh to your companion yester- 

morn ; 
Unwillingly we spake." "No — not 

to her," 
I answer'd, " but to one of whom we 

spake 
Your Highness might have seem'd the 

thing you say." 
" Again 1 " she cried, " are you am- 
bassadresses 
From him to me 1 we give you, being 

strange, 
A license : speak, and let the topic 

die." 

I stammer'd that I knew him — 
could have wish'd — 
"Our king expects — was there no 
precontract ? 



402 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



There is no truer-hearted — ah, you 

seem 
All he prefigured, and he could not see 
The bird of passage flying south but 

long'd 
To follow : surely, if your Highness 

keep 
Your purport, you will shock him ev'n 

to death, 
Or baser courses, children of despair." 

" Poor boy," she said, " can he not 

read — no books 1 
Quoit, tennis, ball — no games ? nor 

deals in that 
Which men delight in, martial exer- 
cise 1 
To nurse a blind ideal like a girl, 
Methinks he seems no better than a 

girl; 
As girls were once, as we ourself have 

been: 
We had our dreams ; perhaps he mixt 

with them : 
We touch on our dead self, nor shun 

to do it, 
Being other — since we learnt our 

meaning here, 
To lift the woman's fall'n divinity 
Upon an even pedestal with man." 

She paused, and added with . a 

haughtier smile 
" And as to precontracts, we move, my 

friend, 
At no man's beck, but know ourself 

and thee, 

Vashti, noble Vashti ! Summoned 

out 
She kept her state, and left the 

drunken king 
To brawl at Shushan underneath the 

palms." * 

" Alas your Highness breathes full 
East," I said, 
" On that which leans to you. I know 
the Prince, 

1 prize his truth : and then how vast 

a work 
To assail this gray preeminence of 
man! 



You grant me license ; might I use it ? 

think ; 
Ere half be done perchance your life 

may fail ; 
Then comes the feebler heiress of your 

plan, 
And takes and ruins all; and thus 

your pains 
May only make that footprint upon 

sand 
Which old-recurring waves of preju- 
dice 
Eesmooth to nothing : might I dread 

that you, 
With only Eame for spouse and your 

great deeds 
Eor issue, yet may live in vain, and 

miss, 
Meanwhile, what every woman counts 

her due, . 
Love, children, happiness ? " 

And she exclaim'd, 
" Peace, you young savage of the 

Northern wild! 
What ! tho' your Prince's love were 

like a God's, 
Have we not made ourself the sacri- 
fice ? 
You are bold indeed: we are not 

talk'd to thus : 
Yet will we say for children, would 

they grew 
Like field-flowers everywhere ! we like 

them well : 
But children die ; and let me tell you, 

girl, 
Howe'er you babble, great deeds can- 
not die ; 
They with the sun and moon renew 

their light 
For ever, blessing those that look on 

them. 
Children — that men may pluck them 

from our hearts, 
Kill us with pity, break us with our- 
selves — 
O — children — there is nothing upon 

earth 
More miserable than she that has a 

son 
And sees him err : nor would we work 

for fame ; 






THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



403 



Tho' she perhaps might reap the ap- 
plause of Great, 
Who learns the one pou sto whence 

after-hands 
May move the world, tho' she herself 

effect 
But little : wherefore up and act, nor 

shrink 
For fear our solid aim he dissipated 
By frail successors. Would, indeed, 

we had been, 
In lieu of many mortal flies, a race 
Of giants living, each, a thousand 

years, 
That we might see our own work out, 

and watch 
The sandy footprint harden into 

stone." 

I answer'd nothing, doubtful in 

myself 
If that strange Poet-princess with her 

grand 
Imaginations might at all be won. 
And she broke out interpreting my 

thoughts : 

" No doubt we seem a kind of 

monster to you ; 
We are used to that : for women, up 

till this 
Cramp'd under worse than South-sea 

isle taboo, 
Dwarfs of the gynseceum, fail so far 
In high desire, they know not, cannot 

guess 
How much their welfare is a passion 

to us. 
If we could give them surer, quicker 

proof — 
Oh if our end were less achievable 
By slow approaches, than by single 

act 
Of immolation, any phase of death, 
We were as prompt to spring against 

the pikes, 
Or down the fiery gulf as talk of it, 
To compass our dear sisters' lib- 
erties." 

She bow'd as if to vail a noble 
tear: 



And up we came to where the river 

sloped 
To plunge in cataract, shattering on 

black blocks 
A breadth of thunder. O'er it shook 

the woods, 
And danced the color, and, below, 

stuck out 
The bones of some vast bulk that 

lived and roar'd 
Before man was. She gazed awhile 

and said, 
" As these rude bones to us, are we to 

her 
That will be." "Dare we dream of 

that," I ask'd, 
" Which wrought us, as the workman 

and his work, 
That practice betters ? " " How," she 

cried, " you love 
The metaphysics ! read and earn 

our prize, 
A golden brooch : beneath an emerald 

plane 
Sits Diotima, teaching him that died 
Of hemlock ; our device ; wrought to 

the life ; 
She rapt upon her subject, he on her : 
For there are schools for all." "And 

yet " I said 
"Methinks I have not found among 

them all 
One anatomic." "Nay, we thought 

of that," 
She answer'd, " but it pleased us not : 

in truth 
We shudder but to dream our maids 

should ape 
Those monstrous males that carve 

the living hound, 
And cram him with the fragments of 

the grave, 
Or in the dark dissolving human 

heart, 
And holy secrets of this microcosm, 
Dabbling a shameless hand with 

shameful jest, 
Encarnalize their spirits : yet we 

know 
Knowledge is knowledge, and this 

matter hangs : 
Howbeit ourself, foreseeing casualty, 



404 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



Nor willing men should come among 

us, learnt, 
For many weary moons before we 

came, 
This craft of healing. Were you 

sick, ourself 
Would tend upon you. To your 

question now, 
Which touches on the workman and 

his work. 
Let there be light and there was 

light : 'tis so : 
For was, and is, and will be, are but 

is; 
And all creation is one act at once, 
The birth of light: but we that are 

not all, 
As parts, can see but parts, now this, 

now that, 
And live, perforce, from thought to 

thought, and make 
One act a phantom of succession : 

thus 
Our weakness somehow shapes the 

shadow, Time ; 
But in the shadow will we work, and 

mould 
The woman to the fuller day." 

She spake 

With kindled eyes : we rode a league 
beyond, 

And, o'er a bridge of pinewood cross- 
ing, came 

On flowery levels underneath the crag, 

Full of all beauty. " how sweet " 
I said 

(For I was half -oblivious of my mask) 

" To linger here with one that loved 
us." " Yea," 

She answer'd, "or with fair philoso- 
phies 

That lift the fancy ; for indeed these 
fields 

Are lovely, lovelier not the Elysian 
lawns, 

Where paced the Demigods of old, 
and saw 

The soft white vapor streak the 
crowned towers 

Built to the Sun:" then, turning to 
her maids, 



"Pitch our pavilion here upon the 

sward ; 
Lay out the viands." At the word, 

they raised 
A tent of satin, elaborately wrought 
With fair Corinna's triumph ; here 

she stood, 
Engirt with many a florid maiden- 
cheek, 
The woman conqueror; woman-con- 

quer'd there 
The bearded Victor of ten-thousand 

hymns, 
And all the men mourn'd at his side : 

but we 
Set forth to climb; then, climbing, 

Cyril kept 
With Psyche, with Melissa Florian, I 
With mine affianced. Many a little 

hand 
Glanced like a touch of sunshine on 

the rocks, 
Many a light foot shone like a jewel 

set 
In the dark crag : and then we turn'd, 

we wound 
About the cliffs, the copses, out and in, 
Hammering and clinking, chattering 

stony names 
Of shale and hornblende, rag and 

trap and tuff, 
Amygdaloid and trachyte, till the Sun 
Grew broader toward his death and 

fell, and all 
The rosy heights came out above the 

lawns. 

IV. 

The splendor falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story : 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, 
dying. 

O hark, O hear ! how thin and clear, 
And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 
* O sweet and far from cliff and scar 

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying : 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, 
dying. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky, 

They faint on hill or field or river : 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



405 



And grow for ever and for ever. 
Klow, bogle, blow, net the wild echoes flying, 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, 
dying. 

" There sinks the nebulous star we 

call the Sun, 
If that hypothesis of theirs be sound." 
Said Ida ; " let us down and rest ; " 

and we 
Down from the lean and wrinkled 

precipices. 
By every coppice-feather'd chasm and 

cleft, 
Dropt thro' the ambrosial gloom to 

where below 
No bigger than a glow-worm shone 

the tent 
Lamp-lit from the inner. Once she 

lean'd on me, 
Descending ; once or twice she lent 

her hand, 
And blissful palpitations in the blood, 
Stirring a sudden transport rose and 

fell. 

But when we planted level feet, 

and dipt 
Beneath the satin dome and enter'd in, 
There leaning deep in broider'd down 

we sank 
Our elbows : on a tripod in the midst 
A fragrant flame rose, and before us 

glow <1 
Fruit, blossom, viand, amber wine, 

and gold. 

Then she, " Let some one sing to 

us : lightlier move 
The minutes fledged with music : " 

and a maid, 
( >f those beside her, smote her harp, 

and sang. 

" Tears, idle tears, I know not what they 
mean, 
Tears from the depth of some divine despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 

*' Fresh as the first heam glittering on a sail, 
That brings our friends up from the under- 
world, 
siad as the last which reddens over one 



That sinks with all we love below the verge ; 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

" Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer 

dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering 

square; 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 

" Dear as remember'd kisses after death, 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd 
On lips that are for others; deep as love, 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; 
O Death in Life, the days that are no more." 

Site ended with such passion that 

the tear, 
She sang of, shook and fell, an erring 

pearl 
Lost in her bosom : but with some 

disdain 
Answer'd the Princess, " If indeed 

there haunt 
About the moulder'd lodges of the Past 
So sweet a voice and vague, fatal to 

men, 
Well needs it we should cram our ears 

with wool 
And so pace by : but thine are fancies 

hatch'd 
In silken-folded idleness ; nor is it 
Wiser to weep a true occasion lost, 
But trim our sails, and let old bygones 

be, 
While down the streams that float us 

each and all 
To the issue, goes, like glittering 

bergs of ice, 
Throne after throne, and molten on 

the waste 
Becomes a cloud : for all things serve 

their time 
Toward that great year of equal 

mights and rights, 
Nor would I fight with iron laws, in 

the end 
Found golden : let the past be past ; 

let be 
Their canccll'd Babels : tho' the rough 

kex break 
The starr'd mosaic, and the beard- 
blown goat 
: Hang on the shaft, and the wild fig- 
tree split 



406 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



Their monstrous idols, care not while 

we hear 
A trumpet in the distance pealing news 
Of better, and Hope, a poising eagle, 

burns 
Above the unrisen morrow : " then to 

me; 
" Know you no song of your own land," 

she said, 
" Not such as moans about the retro- 
spect, 
But deals with the other distance and 

the hues 
Of promise ; not a death's-head at the 

wine." 

Then I remember'd one myself had 

made, 
What time I watch'd the swallow 

winging south 
From mine own land, part made long 

since, and part 
Now while I sang, and maidenlike as 

far 
As I could ape their treble, did I sing. 

" O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South, 
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, 
And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee. 

"Otell her, Swallow, thou that knowest 
each, 
That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, 
And dark and true and tender is the North. 

" O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, 
and light 
Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, 
And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. 

" were I thou that she might take me in, 
And lay me on her bosom, and her heart 
Would rock the snowy cradle till I died. 

"Why lingereth she to clothe her heart 

with love, 
Delaying as the tender ash delays 
To clothe herself, when all the woods are 

green ? 

" O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is 
flown : 
Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, 
But in the North long since my nest is made. 

" O tell her, brief is life but love is long, 
And brief the sun of summer in the North, 
And brief the moon of beauty in the South. 



" O Swallow, flying from the golden woods. 
Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and maka 

her mine, 
And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee.'' 

I ceased, and all the ladies, each at 
each, 

Like the Ithacensian suitors in old 
time, 

Stared with great eyes, and laugh'd 
with alien lips, 

And knew not what they meant ; for 
still my voice 

Rang false : but smiling " Not for 
thee," she said, 

" O Bulbul, any rose of Gulistan 

Shall burst her veil : marsh-divers, 
rather, maid, 

Shall croak thee sister, or the meadow- 
crake 

Grate her harsh kindred in the grass : 
and this 

A mere love-poem ! O for such, my 
friend, 

We hold them slight : they mind us of 
the time 

When we made bricks in Egypt. 
Knaves are men, 

That lute and flute fantastic tender- 
ness, 

And dress the victim to the offering up. 

And paint the gates of Hell with Par- 
adise, 

And play the slave to gain the tyranny. 

Poor soul ! I had a maid of honor once ; 

She wept her true eyes blind for such 
a one, 

A rogue of canzonets and serenades. 

I loved her. Peace be with her. She 
is dead. 

So they blaspheme the muse ! But 
great is song 

Used to great ends : ourself have often 
tried 

Valkyrian hymns, or into rhythm 
have dash'd 

The passion of the prophetess ; for song 

Is duer unto freedom , force and growth 

Of spirit than to junketing and love. 

Love is it 1 Would this same mock- 
love, and this 

Mock-Hymen were laid up like winter 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



407 



Till all men grew to rate us at our 
worth, 

Not vassals to be beat, nor pretty babes 

To be dandled, no, but living wills, 
and sphered 

Whole in ourselves and owed to none. 
Enough! 

But now to leaven play with profit, 
you, 

Know you no song, the true growth of 
your soil, 

That gives the manners of your coun- 
try-women ? 

She spoke and turn'd her sumptu- 
ous head with eyes 

Of shining expectation fixt on mine. 

Then while I dragg'd my brains for 
such a song, 

Cyril, with whom the bell-mouth'd 
glass had wrought, 

Or master'd by the sense of sport, be- 
gan 

To troll a careless, careless tavern- 
catch 

Of Moll and Meg, and strange experi- 
ences 

Unmeet for ladies. Florian nodded 
at him, 

I frowning ; Psyche flush'd and wann'd 
and shook ; 

The lilylike Melissa droop'd her brows ; 

" Forbear," the Princess cried ; " For- 
bear, Sir," I ; 

And heated thro' and thro' with wrath 
and love, 

I smote him on the breast ; he started 
up; 

There rose a shriek as of a city sack'd ; 

Melissa clamor'd "Flee the death;" 
" To horse," 

Said Ida ; " home ! to horse ! " and 
fled, as flies 

A troop of snowy doves athwart the 
dusk, 

When some one batters at the dove- 
cote-doors, 

Disorderly the women. Alone I stood 

With Florian, cursing Cyril, vext at 
heart, 

In the pavilion : there like parting 
hopes 



I heard them passing from me : hoof 

by hoof, 
And every hoof a knell to my desires, 
Clang'd on the bridge ; and then an- 
other shriek, 
" The Head, the Head, the Princess, 

the Head ! " 
For blind with rage she miss'd the 

plank, and roll'd 
In the river. Out I sprang from glow 

to gloom : 
There whiii'd her white robe like a 

blossom'd branch 
Rapt to the horrible fall : a glance I 

gave, 
No more ; but woman- vested as I was 
Plunged ; and the flood drew ; yet I 

caught her; then 
Oaring one arm, and bearing in my 

left 
The weight of all the hopes of half 

the world, 
Strove to buffet to land in vain. A tree 
Was half-disrooted from his place and 

stoop'd 
To drench his dark locks in the gur- 
gling wave 
Mid-channel. Right on this we drove 

and caught, 
And grasping down the boughs I 

gain'd the shore. 

There stood her maidens glimmer- 

ingly group'd 
In the hollow bank. One reaching 

forward drew 
My burthen from mine arms ; they 

cried " she lives : " 
They bore her back into the tent : but 

I, 
So much a kind of shame within me 

wrought, 
Not yet endured to meet her opening 

eyes, 
Nor found my friends; but push'd 

alone on foot 
(For since her horse was lost I left 

her mine) 
Across the woods, and less from 

Indian craft 
Than beelike instinct hiveward, found 

at length 



408 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



The garden portals. Two great 
statues, Art 

And Science, Caryatids lifted up 

A weight of emblem, and betwixt were 
valves 

Of open-work in which the hunter 
rued 

His rash intrusion, manlike, but his 
brows 

Had sprouted, and the branches there- 
upon 

Spread out at top, and grimly spiked 
the gates. 

A little space was left between the 

horns, 
Thro' which I clamber'd o'er at top 

with pain, 
Dropt on the sward, and up the linden 

walks, 
And, tost on thoughts that changed 

from hue to hue, 
Now poring on the glowworm, now 

the star, 
I paced the terrace, till the Bear had 

wheel'd 
Thro' a great arc his seven slow suns. 

A step 

Of lightest echo, then a loftier form 

Than female, moving thro' the uncer- 
tain gloom, 

Disturb'd me with the doubt " if this 
were she," 

But it was Florian. " Hist O Hist," 
he said, 

" They seek us : out so late is out of 
rules. 

Moreover ' seize the strangers ' is the 
cry. 

How came you here 1 " I told him : 
" I " said he, 

" Last of the train, a moral leper, I, 

To whom none spake, half-sick at 
heart, return'd. 

Arriving all confused among the rest 

With hooded brows I crept into the 
hall, 

And, couch'd behind a Judith, under- 
neath 

The head of Holof ernes peep'd and saw. 

Girl after girl was call'd to trial : each 



Disclaim'd all knowledge of us : last 

of all, 
Melissa : trust me, Sir, I pitied her. 
She, question'd if she knew us men. 

at first 
Was silent; closer prest, denied it 

not: 
And then, demanded if her mother 

knew, 
Or Psyche, she affirm 'd not, or de- 
nied : 
From whence the Royal mind, famil- 
iar with her, 
Easily gather'd either guilt. She 

sent 
For Psyche, but she was not there ; 

she call'd 
For Psyche's child to cast it from 

the doors ; 
She sent for Blanche to accuse her 

face to face ; 
And I slipt out : but whither will you 

now ? 
And where are Psyche, Cyril? both 

are fled : 
What, if together? that were not so 

well. 
Would rather we had never come ! I 

dread 
His wildness, and the chances of the 

dark." 

" And yet," I said, " you wrong him 

more than I 
That struck him : this is proper to the 

clown, 
Tho' smock'd, or furr'd and purpled, 

still the clown, 
To harm the thing that trusts him, 

and to shame 
That which he says he loves : for 

Cyril, howe'er 
He deal in frolic, as to-night — the 

song 
Might have been worse and sinn'd in 

grosser lips 
Beyond all pardon — as it is, I hold 
These flashes on the surface are not 

he. 
He has a solid base of temperament : 
But as the waterlily starts and slides 
Upon the level in little puffs of wind, 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



409 



Tho' anchor'd to the bottom, such is 
he." 

Scarce had I ceased when from a 

tamarisk near 
Two Proctors leapt upon us, crying, 

" Names : " 
He, standing still, was clutch'd; but 

I began 
To thrid the musky-circled mazes, 

wind 
And double in and out the boles, and 

race 
By all the fountains : fleet I was of 

foot : 
Before me shower'd the rose in flakes ; 

behind 
I heard the puffd pursuer; at mine 

ear 
Bubbled the nightingale and heeded 

not, 
And secret laughter tickled all my 

soul. 
At last I hook'd my ankle in a vine, 
That claspt the feet of a Mnemosyne, 
And falling on my face was caught 

and known. 

They haled us to the Princess 
where she sat 

High in the hall : above her droop'd 
a lamp, 

And made the single jewel on her 
brow 

Burn like the mystic fire on a mast- 
head, 

Prophet of storm : a handmaid on 
each side 

Bow'd toward her, combing out her 
long black hair 

Damp from the river; and close be- 
hind her stood 

Kight daughters of the plough, 
stronger than men, 

Huge women blowzed with health, 
and wind, and rain, 

And labor. Each was like a Druid 
rock; 

< )r like a spire of land that stands 
apart 

Cleft from the main, and wail'd about 
with mews. 



Then, as we came, the crowd divid- 
ing clove 
An advent to the throne : and there- 

beside, 
Half-naked as if caught at once from 

bed 
And tumbled on the purple footcloth, 

lay 
The lily-shining child; and on the 

left, 
Bow'd on her palms and folded up 

from wrong, 
Her round white shoulder shaken with 

her sobs, 
Melissa knelt; but Lady Blanche 

erect 
Stood up and spake, an affluent 

orator. 



" It was not thus, O Princess, in old 

days : 
You prized my counsel, lived upon 

my lips : 
I led you then to all the Castalies; 
I fed you with the milk of every 

Muse; 
I loved you like this kneeler, and you 

me 
Your second mother: those were 

gracious times. 
Then came, your new friend : you 

began to change — 
I saw it and grieved — to slacken and 

to cool ; 
Till taken with her seeming openness 
You turn'd your warmer currents all 

to her, 
To me you froze : this was my meed 

for all. 
Yet I bore up in part from ancient 

love, 
And partly that I hoped to win you 

back, 
And partly conscious of my own 

deserts, 
And partly that you were my civil 

head, 
And chiefly you were born for some- 
thing great, 
In which I might vour fellow -worker 

be, 



410 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



When time should serve ; and thus a 

noble scheme 
Grew up from seed we two long since 

had sown; 
In us true growth, in her a Jonah's 

gourd, 
Up in one night and due to sudden 

sun: 
We took this palace ; but even from 

the first 
You stood in your own light and 

darkened mine. 
What student came but that you 

planed her path 
To Lady Psyche, younger, not so wise, 
A foreigner, and I your country- 
woman, 
I your old friend and tried, she new 

in all ? 
But still her lists were swelFd and 

mine were lean ; 
Yet I bore up in hope she would be 

known : 
Then came these wolves : they knew 

her : they endured, 
Long-closeted with her the yester- 

morn, 
To tell her what they were, and she 

to hear : 
And me none told : not less to an eye 

like mine 
A lidless watcher of the public weal, 
Last night, their mask was patent, 

and my foot 
Was to you : but I thought again : I 

fear'd 
To meet a cold ' We thank you, we 

shall hear of it 
From Lady Psyche : ' you had gone 

to her, 
She told, perforce ; and winning easy 

grace, 
No doubt, for slight delay, remain'd 

among us 
In our young nursery still unknown, 

the stem 
Less grain than touchwood, while my 

honest heat 
Were all miscounted as malignant 

haste 
To push my rival out of place and 

power. 



But public use required she should be 

known ; 
And since my oath was ta'en for 

public use, 
I broke the letter of it to keep the 

sense. 
I spoke not then at first, but watch'd 

them well, 
Saw that they kept apart, no mischief 

done; 
And yet this day (tho J you should 

hate me for it) 
I came to tell you; found that you 

had gone, 
Ridd'n to the hills, she likewise : now, 

I thought, 
That surely she will speak; if not, 

then I : 
Did she ? These monsters blazon'd 

what they were, 
According to the coarseness of their 

kind, 
For thus I hear; and known at last 

(my work) 
And full of cowardice and guilty 

shame, 
I grant in her some sense of shame, 

she flies ; 
And I remain on whom to wreak 

your rage, 
I, that have lent my life to build up 

yours, 
I that have wasted here health, wealth, 

and time, 
And talent, I — you know it — I will 

not boast : 
Dismiss me, and I prophesy your plan, 
Divorced from my experience, will be 

chaff 
For every gust of chance, and men 

will say 
We did not know the real light, but 

chased 
The wisp that nickers where no foot 

can tread." 

She ceased: the Princess answer'd 

coldly, " Good : 
Your oath is broken : we dismiss you : 

go. 
For this lost lamb (she pointed to the 

child) 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



411 



Our mind is changed : we take it to 
ourself." 

Thereat the Lady stretch'd a vul- 
ture throat, 
And shot from crooked lips a haggard 

smile. 
"The plan was mine. I built the 

nest " she said 
"To hatch the cuckoo. Rise!" and 

stoop'd to updrag 
Melissa : she, half on her mother propt, 
Half-drooping from her, turn'd her 

face, and cast 
A liquid look on Ida, full of prayer, 
Which melted Florian's fancy as she 

hung, 
A Niobean daughter, one arm out, 
Appealing to the bolts of Heaven ; 

and while 
We gazed upon her came a little stir 
About the doors, and on a sudden 

rush'd 
Among us, out of breath, as one pur- 
sued, 
A woman-post in flying raiment. 

Fear 
Stared in her eyes, and chalk'd her 

face, and wing'd 
Her transit to the throne, whereby she 

fell 
Delivering seal'd dispatches which 

the Head 
Took half-amazed, and in her lion's 

mood 
Tore open, silent we with blind surmise 
Regarding, while she read, till over 

brow 
And cheek and bosom brake the 

wrathful bloom 
As of some fire against a stormy 

cloud, 
When the wild peasant rights him- 
self, the rick 
Flames, and his anger reddens in the 

heavens ; 
For anger most it seem'd, while now 

her breast, 
Beaten with some great passion at 

her heart, 
Palpitated, her hand shook, and we 

heard 



In the dead hush the papers that she 

held 
Rustle : at once the lost lamb at her 

feet 
Sent out a bitter bleating for its dam ; 
The plaintive cry jarr'd on her ire; 

she crushed 
The scrolls together, made a sudden 

turn 
As if to speak, but, utterance failing 

her, 
She whirl'd them on to me, as who 

should say 
"Read," and I read — two letters — 

one her sire's. 



" Fair daughter, when we sent the 

Prince your way 
We knew not your ungracious laws> 

which learnt, 
We, conscious of what temper you 

are built, 
Came all in haste to hinder wrong, 

but fell 
Into his father's hands, who has this 

night, 
You lying close upon his territory, 
Slipt round and in the dark invested 

you, 
And here he keeps me hostage for his 



The second was my father's running 

thus : 
" You have our son : touch not a hair 

of his head : 
Render him up unscathed : give him 

your hand : 
Cleave to your contract : tho' indeed 

we hear 
You hold the woman is the better man ; 
A rampant heresy, such as if it spread 
Would make all women kick against 

their Lords 
Thro' all the world, and which might 

well deserve 
That we this night should pluck your 

palace down; 
And we will do it, unless you send us 

back 
Our son, on the instant, whole,'' 



412 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



So far I read ; 
And then stood up and spoke impetu- 
ously. 

" not to pry and peer on your 

reserve, 
But led by golden wishes, and a hope 
The child of regal compact, did I 

break 
Your precinct ; not a scorner of your 

sex 
But venerator, zealous it should be 
All that it might be : hear me, for I 

bear, 
Tho' man, yet human, whatsoe'er 

your wrongs, 
From the flaxen curl to the gray lock 

a life 
Less mine than yours : my nurse 

would tell me of you ; 
I babbled for you, as babies for the 

moon, 
Vague brightness ; when a boy, you 

stoop'd to me 
From all high places, lived in all fair 

lights, 
Came in long breezes rapt from in- 
most south 
And blown to inmost north ; at eve 

and dawn 
With Ida, Ida, Ida, rang the woods ; 
The leader wildswan in among the 

stars 
Would clang it, and lapt in wreaths 

of glowworm light 
The mellow breaker murmur'd Ida. 

Now, 
Because I would have reach'd you, 

had you been 
Sphered up with Cassiopeia, or the 

enthroned 
Persephone in Hades, now at length, 
Those winters of abeyance all worn out, 
A man I came to see you : but, indeed, 
Not in this frequence can I lend full 

tongue, 
O noble Ida, to those thoughts that 

wait 
On you, their centre : let me say but 

this, 
That many a famous man and woman, 

town 



And landskip, have I heard of, after 

seen 
The dwarfs of presage : tho' when 

known, there grew 
Another kind of beauty in detail 
Made them worth knowing; but in 

you I found 
My boyish dream involved and daz- 
zled down 
And master'd, while that after-beauty 

makes 
Such head from act to act, from hour 

to hour, 
Within me, that except you slay me 

here, 
According to your bitter statute-book, 
I cannot cease to f ollowyou, as they say 
The seal does music ; who desire you 

more 
Than growing boys their manhood ; 

dying lips, 
With many thousand matters left to 

do, 
The breath of life ; O more than poor 

men wealth, 
Than sick men health — yours, yours, 

not mine — but half 
Without you; with you, whole; and 

of those halves 
You worthiest ; and howe'er you block 

and bar 
Your heart with system out from mine, 

I hold 
That it becomes no man to nurse 

despair, 
But in the teeth of clench'd antago- 
nisms 
To follow up the worthiest till he die : 
Yet that I came not all unauthorized 
Behold your father's letter." 

On one knee 
Kneeling, I gave it, which she caught, 

and dash'd 
Unopen'd at her feet : a tide of fierce 
Invective seem'd to wait behind her 

lips, 
As waits a river level with the dam 
Ready to burst and flood the world 

with foam : 
And so she would have spoken, but 

there rose 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



413 



A hubbub in the court of half the 

maids 
Gather'd together : from the illumined 

hall 
Long lanes of splendor slanted o'er a 

press 
Of snowy shoulders, thick as herded 

ewes, 
And rainbow robes, and gems and 

gemlike eyes, 
And gold and golden heads ; they to 

and fro 
Fluctuated, as flowers in storm, some 

red, some pale, 
All open-mouth'd, all gazing to the 

light, 
Some crying there was an army in the 

land, 
And some that men were in the very 

walls, 
And some they cared not; till a 

clamor grew 
As of a new-world Babel, woman- 
built, 
And worse-confounded : high above 

them stood 
The placid marble Muses, looking 

peace. 

Not peace she look'd, the Head: 

but rising up 
Robed in the long night of her deep 

hair, so 
To the open window moved, remaining 

there 
Fixt like a beacon-tower above the 

waves 
Of tempest, when the crimson-rolling 

eye 
Glares ruin, and the wild birds on the 

light 
Dash themselves dead. She stretch'd 

her arms and call'd 
Across the tumult and the tumult fell. 



" What fear ye, brawlers ? am not 

I your Head ? 
On me, me, me, the storm first breaks : 

1 dare 
All these male thunderbolts ; what is 

it ye fear 1 



Peace ! there are those to avenge us 

and they come : 
If not, — myself were like enough, 

girls, 
To unfurl the maiden banner of our 

rights, 
And clad in iron burst the ranks of 

war, 
Or, falling, protomartyr of our cause, 
Die : yet I blame you not so much for 

fear; 
Six thousand years of fear have made 

you that 
From which I would redeem you : but 

for those 
That stir this hubbub — you and you 

— I know 
Your faces there in the crowd — to- 
morrow morn 
We hold a great convention : then 

shall they 
That love their voices more than duty, 

learn 
With whom they deal, dismiss'd in 

shame to live 
No wiser than their mothers, house- 
hold stuff, 
Live chattels, mincers of each other's 

fame, 
Full of weak poison, turnspits for the 

clown, 
The drunkard's football, laughing- 
stocks of Time, 
Whose brains are in their hands and 

in their heels, 
But fit to flaunt, to dress, to dance, to 

thrum, 
To tramp, to scream, to burnish, and 

to scour, 
For ever slaves at home and fools 

abroad." 

She, ending, waved her hands : 

thereat the crowd 
Muttering, dissolved : then with a 

smile, that look'd 
A stroke of cruel sunshine on the 

cliff, 
When all the glens are drown'd in 

azure gloom 
Of thunder-shower, she floated to us 

and said • 



414 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



"You have done well and like a 

gentleman, 
And like a prince : you have our 

thanks for all : 
And you look well too in your woman's 

dress : 
Well have you done and like a gentle- 
man. 
You saved our life : we owe you bitter 

thanks : 
Better have died and spilt oUr bones 

in the flood — 
Then men had said — but now — What 

hinders me 
To take such bloody vengeance on you 

both % — 
Yet since our father — Wasps in our 

good hive, 
You would-be quenchers of the light 

to be, 
Barbarians, grosser than your native 

bears — 

would I had his sceptre for one 

hour! 
You that have dared to break our 

bound, and gull'd 
Our servants, wrong'd and lied and 

thwarted us — 
/wed with thee ! Zboundby precontract 
Your bride, your bondslave ! not tho' 

all the gold 
That veins the world were pack'd to 

make your crown, 
And every spoken tongue should lord 

you. Sir, 
Your falsehood and yourself are hate- 
ful to us : 

1 trample on your offers and on you : 
Begone : we will not look upon you 

more. 
Here, push them out at gates." 

In wrath she spake. 
Then those eight mighty daughters of 

the plough 
Bent their broad faces toward us and 

address'd 
Their motion : twice I sought to plead 

my cause, 
But on my shoulder hung their heavy 

hands, 
The weight of destiny : so from her 

face 



They push'd us, down the steps, and 

thro' the court, 
And with grim laughter thrust us out 

at gates. 

We cross'd the street and gain'd a 

petty mound 
Beyond it, whence we saw the lights 

and heard 
The voices murmuring. While I 

listen'd, came 
On a sudden the weird seizure and the 

doubt : 
i seem'd to move among a world of 

ghosts ; 
The Princess with her monstrous 

woman-guard, 
The jest and earnest working side by 

side, 
The cataract and the tumult and the 

kings 
Were shadows ; and the long fantas- 
tic night 
With all its doings had and had not 

been, 
And all things were and were not. 

This went by 
As strangely as it came, and on my 

spirits 
Settled a gentle cloud of melancholy ; 
Not long ; I shook it off ; for spite of 

doubts 
And sudden ghostly shadowings I was 

one 
To whom the touch of all mischance 

but came 
As night to him that sitting on a hill 
Sees the midsummer, midnight, Nor- 
way sun 
Set into sunrise ; then we moved away. 

Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums, 

That beat to battle where he stands ; 
Thy face across his fancy comes, 

And gives the battle to his hands : 
A moment, while the trumpets blow, 

He sees his brood about thy knee; 
The next, like fire he meets the foe, 

And strikes him dead for thine and thee. 

So Lilia sang : we thought her half- 

possess'd, 
She struck such warbling fury thro 1 

the words : 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



415 



And, after, feigning pique at what she 

call'd 
The raillery, or grotesque, or false 

sublime — 
Like one that wishes at a dance to 

change 
The music — clapt her hands and 

cried for war, 
Or some grand fight to kill and make 

an end : 
And he that next inherited the tale 
Half turning to the broken statue, said, 
" Sir Ralph has got your colors : if I 

prove 
Your knight, and fight your battle, 

what for me ? " 
It chanced, her empty glove upon the 

tomb 
Lay by her like a model of her hand. 
She took it and she flung it. " Fight," 

she said, 
" And make us all we would be, great 

and good." 
He knightlike in his cap instead of 

casque, 
A cap of Tyrol borrow'd from the hall, 
Arranged the favor, and assumed the 

Prince. 



Now, scarce three paces measured 

from the mound, 
We stumbled on a stationary voice, 
And " Stand, who goes ? " " Two 

from the palace " I. 
" The second two : they wait," he said, 

"pass on ; 
His Highness wakes : " and one, that 

clash'd in arms, 
By glimmering lanes and walls of 

canvass led 
Threading the soldier-city, till we 

heard 
The drowsy folds of our great ensign 

shake 
From blazon'd lions o'er the imperial 

tent 
Whispers of war. 

Entering, the sudden light 
Dazed me half-blind : I stood and 

seem'd to hear, 



As in a poplar grove when a light 

wind wakes 
A lisping of the innumerous leaf and 

dies, 
Each hissing in his neighbor's ear ; 

and then 
A strangled titter, out of which there 

brake 
On all sides, clamoring etiquette to 

death, 
Unmeasured mirth ; while now the two 

old kings 
Began to wag their baldness up and 

down, 
The fresh young captains flash'd their 

glittering teeth, 
The huge bush-bearded Barons heaved 

and blew, 
And slain with laughter roll'd the 

gilded Squire. 

At length my Sire, his rough cheek 

wet with tears, 
Panted from weary sides " King, you 

are free ! 
We did but keep you surety for our 

son, 
If this be he, — or a draggled mawkin, 

thou, 
That tends her bristled grunters in 

the sludge : " 
For I was drench'd with ooze, and 

torn with briers, 
More crumpled than a poppy from the 

sheath, 
And all one rag, disprinced from head 

to heel. 
Then some one sent beneath his 

vaulted palm 
A whisper'd jest to some one near 

him, " Look, 
He has been among his shadows." 

" Satan take 
The old women and their shadows ! 

(thus the King 
Roar'd) make yourself a man to fight 

with men. 
Go : Cyril told us all." 

As boys that slink 
From ferule and the trespass-chiding 

eye, 
Away we stole, and transient in a trice 



416 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



From what was left of faded woman- 
slough 
To sheathing splendors and the golden 

scale 
Of harness, issued in the sun, that 

now 
Leapt from the dewy shoulders of the 

Earth, 
And hit the Northern hills. Here 

Cyril met us. 
A little shy at first, but by and by 
We twain, with mutual pardon ask'd 

and given 
For stroke and song, resolder'd peace, 

whereon 
Follow'd his tale. Amazed he fled 

away 
Thro' the dark land, and later in the 

night 
Had came on Psyche weeping : " then 

we fell 
Into your father's hand, and there she 

lies, 
But will not speak, nor stir." 

He show'd a tent 
A stone-shot off: we enter'd in, and 

tliere 
Among piled arms and rough ac- 
coutrements, 
Pitiful sight, wrapp'd in a soldier's 

cloak, 
Like some sweet sculpture draped 

from head to foot, 
And push'd by rude hands from its 

pedestal, 
All her fair length upon the ground 

she lay : 
And at her head a follower of the 

camp, 
A charr'd and wrinkled piece of wo- 

♦ manhood, 
Sat watching like a watcher by the 

dead. 

Then Florian knelt, and " Come " 

he whisper'd to her, 
" Lift up your head, sweet sister : lie 

not thus. 
What have you done but right ? you 

could not slay 
Me, nor your prince : look up : be 

comforted : 



Sweet is it to have done the thing one 

ought, 
When fallen in darker ways." And 

likewise I: 
" Be comforted : have I not lost her 

too, 
In whose least act abides the nameless 

charm 
That none has else for me % " She 

heard, she moved, 
She moan'd, a folded voice ; and up 

she sat, 
And raised the cloak from brows as 

pale and smooth 
As those that mourn half-shrouded 

over death 
In deathless marble. " Her," she 

said, " my friend — 
Parted from her — betray'd her cause 

and mine — 
Where shall I breathe ? why kept ye 

not your faith 1 
O base and bad ! what comfort ? none 

for me ! " 
To whom remorseful Cyril, " Yet I pray 
Take comfort: live, dear lady, for your 

child ! " 
At which she lifted up her voice and 

cried. 

" Ah me, my babe, my blossom, ah, 

my child, 
My one sweet child, whom I shall see 

no more ! 
For now will cruel Ida keep her back ; 
And either she will die from want of 

care, 
Or sicken with ill-usage, when they say 
The child is hers — for every little 

fault, 
The child is hers ; and they will beat 

my girl 
Remembering her mother: O my 

flower ! 
Or they will take her, they will make 

her hard, 
And she will pass me by in after-life 
With some cold reverence worse than 

were she dead. 
Ill mother thatlwas to leave her there. 
To lag behind, scared by the cry 

they made, 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



417 



The horror of the shame among them 

all: 
But I will go and sit beside the doors, 
And make a wild petition night and 

day, 
Until they hate to hear me like a wind 
Wailing for ever, till they open to me, 
And lay my little blossom at my feet, 
My babe, my sweet Agla'ia, my one 

child : 
And I will take her up and go my way, 
And satisfy my soul with kissing her : 
Ah ! what might that man not deserve 

of me 
Who gave me back my child 1 " " Be 

comforted," 
Said Cyril, " you shall have it : " but 

again 
She veil'd her brows, and prone she 

sank, and so 
Like tender things that being caught 

feign death, 
Spoke not, nor stirr'd. 

By this a murmur ran 
Thro' all the camp and inward raced 

the scouts 
With rumor of Prince Arac hard at 

hand. 
We left her by the woman, and with- 
out 
Found the gray kings at parle : and 

"Look you" cried 
My father " that our compact be ful- 
fills : 
You have spoilt this child ; she laughs 

at you and man : 
She wrongs herself, her sex, and me, 

and him : 
But red-faced war has rods of steel 

and fire ; 
She yields, or war." 

Then Gama turn'd to me : 
: ' We fear, indeed, you spent a stormy 

time 
With our strange girl : and yet they 

say that still 
You love her. Give us, then, your 

mind at large : 
How say you, war or not 1 " 

" Not war, if possible, 
king," I said, " lest from the abuse 

of war, 



The desecrated shrine, the trampled 

year, 
The smouldering homestead, and the 

household flower 
Torn from the lintel — all the com- 
mon wrong — 
A smoke go up thro' which I loom to 

her 
Three times a monster: now she 

lightens scorn 
At him that mars her plan, -but then 

would hate 
(And every voice she talk'd with 

ratify it, 
And every face she look'd on justify it) 
The general foe. More soluble is this 

knot, 
By gentleness than war. I want her 

love. 
What were I nigher this altho' we 

clashed 
Your cities into shards with catapults, 
She would not love ; — or brought her 

chain' d, a slave, 
The lifting of whose eyelash is my lord, 
Not ever would she love ; but brood- 
ing turn 
The book of scorn, till all my flitting 

chance 
Were caught within the record of her 

wrongs, 
And crush'd to death: and rather, 

Sire, than this 
I would the old God of war himself 

were dead, 
Forgotten, rusting on his iron hills, 
Rotting on some wild shore with ribs 

of wreck, 
Or like an old-world mammoth bulk'd 

in ice, 
Not to be molten out." # 

And roughly spake 
My father, " Tut, you know them not, 

the girls. 
Boy, when I hear you prate I almost 

think 
That idiot legend credible. Look you, 

Sir! 
Man is the hunter; woman is his 

game : 
The sleek and shining creatures of the 

chase, 



418 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



We hunt them for the beauty of their 

skins ; 
They love us for it, and we ride them 

down. 
Wheedling and siding with them ! 

Out ! for shame ! 
Boy, there's no rose that's half so dear 

to them 
As he that does the thing they dare 

not do, 
Breathing and sounding beauteous 

battle, comes 
With the air of the trumpet round 

him, and leaps in 
Among the women, snares them by 

the score 
Flatter'd and fluster'd, wins, tho' 

dash'd with death 
He reddens Avhat he kisses : thus I won 
Your mother, a good mother, a good 

wife, 
Worth winning ; but this firebrand — 

gentleness 
To such as her ! if Cyril spake her true, 
To catch a dragon in a cherry net, 
To trip a tigress with a gossamer, 
Were wisdom to it." 

" Yea but Sire," I cried, 
" Wild natures need wise curbs. The 

soldier 1 No : 
What dares not Ida do that she should 

prize 
The soldier ? I beheld her, when she 

rose 
The yesternight, and storming in ex- 
tremes, 
Stood for her cause, and flung defiance 

down 
Gagelike to man, and had not shunn'd 

the death, 
Nof not the soldier's : yet I hold her, 

king, 
True woman : but you clash them all 

in one, 
That have as many differences as we. 
The violet varies from the lily as far 
As oak from elm : one loves the sol- 
dier, one 
The silken priest of peace, one this, 

one that, 
And some unworthily ; their sinless 

faith, 



A maiden moon that sparkles on a sty, 
Glorifying clown and satyr ; whence 

they need 
More breadth of culture : is not Ida 

right 1 
They worth it 1 truer to the law with- 
in % 
Severer in the logic of a life 1 
Twice as magnetic to sweet influences 
Of earth and heaven ? and she of 

whom you speak, 
My mother, looks as whole as some 

serene 
Creation minted in the golden moods 
Of sovereign artists ; not a thought, 

a touch, 
But pure as lines of green that streak 

the white 
Of the first snowdrop's inner leaves ; 

I say, 
Not like the piebald miscellany, man, 
Bursts of great heart and slips in 

sensual mire, 
But whole and one : and take them 

all-in-all, 
Were we ourselves but half as good, 

as kind, 
As truthful, much that Ida claims as 

right 
Had ne'er been mooted, but as frankly 

theirs 
As dues of Nature. To our point: 

not war : 
Lest I lose all." 

" Nay, nay, you spake but sense," 
Said Gama. " We remember love 

ourself 
In our sweet youth ; we did not rate 

him then 
This red-hot iron to be shaped with 

blows. 
You talk almost like Ida : she can talk ; 
And there is something in it as you 

say: 
But you talk kindlier : we esteem you 

for it. — 
He seems a gracious and a gallant 

Prince, 
I would he had our daughter : for the 

rest, 
Our own detention, why, the causes 

weigh'd, 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



419 



Fatherly fears — you used us cour- 
teously — 
We would do much to gratify your 

Prince — 
We pardon it; and for your ingress 

here 
Upon the skirt and fringe of our fair 

land, 
You did but come as goblins in the 

night, 
Nor in the furrow broke the plough- 
man's head, 
Nor burnt the grange, nor buss'd the 

milking-maid, 
Nor robb'd the farmer of his bowl of 

cream : 
But let your Prince (our royal word 

upon it, 
He comes back safe) ride with us to 

our lines, 
And speak withArac: Arac's word 

is thrice 
As ours with Ida : something may be 

done — 
I know not what — and ours shall see 

us friends. 
You, likewise, our late guests, if so 

you will, 
Follow us : who knows ? we four may 

build some plan 
Foursquare to opposition." 

Here he reach'd 
White hands of farewell to my sire, 

who growl'd 
An answer which, half-muffled in his 

beard, 
Let so much out as gave us leave to 

go. 

Then rode we with the old king 

across the lawns 
Beneath huge trees, a thousand rings 

of Spring 
In every bole, a song on every spray 
Of birds that piped their Valentines, 

and woke 
Desire in me to infuse my tale of 

love 
In the old king's ears, who promised 

help, and oozed 
All o'er with honey'd answer as we 

rode 



And blossom-fragrant slipt the heavy 

dews 
Gather'd by night and peace, with 

each light air 
On our mail'd heads : but other 

thoughts than Peace 
Burnt in us, when we saw the em- 
battled squares, 
And squadrons of the Prince, tramp- 
ling the flowers 
With clamor : for among them rose a 

cry 
As if to greet the king; they made a 

halt ; 
The horses yell'd ; they clash'd their 

arms ; the drum 
Beat; merrily -blowing shrill'd the 

martial fife ; 
And in the blast and bray of the long 

horn 
And serpent-throated bugle, undulated 
The banner : anon to meet us lightly 

pranced 
Three captains out; nor ever had I 

seen 
Such thews of men : the midmost and 

the highest 
Was Arac : all about his motion 

clung 
The shadow of his sister, as the beam 
Of the East, that play'd upon them, 

made them glance 
Like those three stars of the airy 

Giant's zone, 
That glitter burnish'd by the frosty 

dark ; 
And as the fiery Sirius alters hue, 
And bickers into red and emerald, 

shone 
Their morions, wash'd with morning, 

as they came. 

And I that prated peace, when first 

I heard 
War-music, felt the blind wildbeast of 

of force, 
Whose home is in the sinews of a 

man, 
Stir in me as to strike : then took the 

king 
His three broad sons ; with now a 

wandering hand 



420 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



And now a pointed finger,told them all : 
A common light of smiles at our dis- 
guise 
Broke from their lips, and, ere the 

windy jest 
Had labor'd down within his ample 

lungs, 
The genial giant, Arac, rolPd himself 
Thrice in the saddle, then burst out in 
words. 

" Our land invaded, 'sdeath ! and he 

himself 
Your captive, yet my father wills not 

war: 
And, 'sdeath! myself, what care I, 

war or no 1 
But then this question of your troth 

remains : 
And there's a downright honest mean- 
ing in her ; 
She flies too high, she flies too high ! 

and yet 
She ask'd but space and fairplay for 

her scheme ; 
She prest and prest it on me — I my- 
self, 
What know I of these things ? but, 

life and soul ! 
I thought her half -right talking of her 

wrongs ; 
I say she flies too high, 'sdeath ! what 

of that ? 
I take her for the flower of woman- 
kind, 
And so I often told her, right or wrong, 
And, Prince, she can be sweet to those 

she loves, 
And, right or wrong, I care not : this 

is all, 
I stand upon her side : she made me 

swear it — 
'Sdeath — and with solemn rites by 

candlelight — 
Swear by St. something — I forget 

her name — 
Her that talk'd down the fifty wisest 

men ; 
She was a princess too ; and so I 

swore. 
Come, this is all ; she will not : waive 

your claim 



If not, the foughten field, what else, 

at once 
Decides it, 'sdeath ! against my 

father's will." 

I lagg'd in answer loth to render up 
My precontract, and loth by brainless 

war 
To cleave the rift of difference deeper 

yet; 
Till one of those two brothers, half 

aside 
And fingering at the hair about his 

lip, 
To prick us on to combat " Like to 

like! 
The woman's garment hid the 

woman's heart." 
A taunt that clench'd his purpose 

like a blow ! 
For fiery-short was Cyril's counter- 
scoff, 
And sharp I answer'd, touch'd upon 

the point 
Where idle boys are cowards to their 

shame, 
" Decide it here : why not 1 we are 

three to three." 

Then spake the third " But three to 
three 1 no more 1 

No more, and in our noble sister's 
cause 1 

More, more, for honor : every captain 
waits 

Hungry for honor, angry for his king. 

More, more, some fifty on a side, that 
each 

May breathe himself, and quick ! by 
overthrow 

Of these or those, the question set- 
tled die." 

"Yea," answer'd I, "for this wild 

wreath of air, 
This flake of rainbow flying on the 

highest 
Foam of men's deeds — this honor, if 

ye will. 
It needs must be for honor if at all : 
Since, what decision % if we fail, we 

fail, 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



421 



And if we win, we fail : she would not 

keep 
Her compact." " 'Sdeath ! but we 

will send to her," 
Said Arac, " worthy reasons why she 

should 
Bide by this issue : let our missive thro', 
And you shall have her answer by 

the word." 

" Boys ! " shriek'd the old king, but 

vainlier than a hen 
To her false daughters in the pool; 

for none 
Regarded ; neither seem'd there more 

to say : 
Back rode we to my father's camp, 

and found 
He thrice had sent a herald to the 

gates, 
To learn if Ida yet would cede our 

claim, 
Or by denial flush her babbling wells 
With her own people's life : three 

times he went : 
The first, he blew and blew, but none 

appear'd : 
He batter'd at the doors ; none came : 

the next, 
An awful voice within had warn'd 

him thence : 
The third, and those eight daughters 

of the plough 
Came sallying thro' the gates, and 

caught his hair, 
And so belabor'd him on rib and 

cheek 
They made him wild : not less one 

glance he caught 
Thro' open doors of Ida station'd 

there 
Unshaken, clinging to her purpose, 

firm 
Tho' compass'd by two armies and 

the noise 
Of arms ; and standing like a stately 

Pine 
Set in a cataract on an island-crag, 
When storm is on the heights, and 

right and left 
Suck'd from the dark heart of the 

long hills roll 



The torrents, dash'd to the vale : and 

yet her will 
Bred will in me to overcome it or fall. 

But when I told the king that I 

was pledged 
To fight in tourney for my bride, he 

clash'd 
His iron palms together with a cry ; 
Himself would tilt it out among the 

lads: 
But overborne by all his bearded 

lords 
With reasons drawn from age and 

state, perforce 
He yielded, wroth and red, with fierce 

demur : 
And many a bold knight started up in 

heat, 
And sware to combat for my claim 

till death. 

All on this side the palace ran the 

field 
Flat to the garden-wall : and likewise 

here, 
Above the garden's glowing blossom* 

belts, _, 

A column'd entry shone and marble 

stairs, 
And great bronze valves, emboss'd 

with Tomyris 
And what she did to Cyrus after fight, 
But now fast barr'd : so here upon 

the flat 
All that long morn the lists were 

hammer'd up, 
And all that morn the heralds to and 

fro, 
With message and defiance, went and 

came; 
Last, Ida's answer, in royal hand, 
But shaken here and there, and rol- 
ling words 
Oration-like. I kiss'd it and I read. 

"O brother, you have known the 

pangs we felt, 
What heats of indignation when we 

heard 
Of those that iron-cramp'd their 

women's feet; 



422 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



Of lands in which at the altar the 

poor bride 
Gives her harsh groom for bridal-gift 

a scourge ; 
Of living hearts that crack within the 

fire 
Where smoulder their dead despots; 

and of those, — 
Mothers, — that, all prophetic pity, 

fling 
Their pretty maids in the running 

flood, and swoops 
The vulture, beak and talon, at the 

heart 
Made for all noble motion : and I saw 
That equal baseness lived in sleeker 

times 
With, smoother men : the old leaven 

leaven'd all: 
Millions of throats would bawl for 

civil rights, 
No woman named: therefore I set 

my face 
Against all men, and lived but for 

mine own. 
Far off from men I built a fold for 

them : 
I stored it full of rich memorial : 
I fenced it round with gallant insti- 
tutes, 
And biting laws to scare the beasts 

of prey 
And prosper'd ; till a rout of saucy 

boys 
Brake on us at our books, and marr'd 

our peace, 
Mask'd like our maids, blustering I 

know not what 
Of insolence and love, some pretext 

held 
Of baby troth, invalid, since my 

will 
Seal'd not the bond — the striplings ! 

— for their sport ! — 
I tamed my leopards : shall I not 

tame these ? 
Or you 1 or 1 1 for since you think me 

touch'd 
In honor — what, I would not aught 

of false — 
Is not our cause pure ? and whereas I 

know 



Your prowess, Arac, and what 

mother's blood 
You draw from, fight ; you failing, I 

abide 
What end soever : fail you will not. 

Still 
Take not his life : he risk'd it for my 

own ; 
His mother lives : yet whatsoe'er you 

do, 
Fight and fight well; strike and strike 

home. O dear 
Brothers, the woman's Angel guards 

you, you 
The sole men to be mingled with our 

cause, 
The sole men we shall prize in the 

aftertime, 
Your very armor hallow'd, and your 

statues 
Rear'd, sung to, when, this gad-fly 

brush'd aside, 
We plant a solid foot into the Time, 
And mould a generation strong to 

move 
With claim on claim from right to 

right, till she 
Whose name is yoked with children's, 

know herself ; 
And Knowledge in our own land 

make her free, 
And, ever following those two crowned 

twins, 
Commerce and conquest, shower the 

fiery grain 
Of freedom broadcast over all that 

orbs 
Between the Northern and the Southern 

morn." 

Then came a postscript dash'd 
across the rest. 

" See that there be no traitors in your 
camp : 

We seem a nest of traitors — none to 
trust 

Since our arms fail'd — this Egypt- 
plague of men ! 

Almost our maids were better at their 
homes, 

Than thus man-girled here : indeed I 
think 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



423 



Our chief est comfort is the little child 
Of one unworthy mother ; which she 

left: 
She shall not have it back : the child 

shall grow 
To prize the authentic mother of her 

mind. 
I took it for an hour in mine own bed 
This morning: there the tender orphan 

hands 
Felt at my heart, and seem'd to charm 

from thence 
The wrath I nursed against the world 

farewell." 

I ceased; he said, "Stubborn, but 

she may sit 
Upon a king's right hand in thunder- 
storms, 
And breed up warriors ! See now, tho* 

yourself 
Be dazzled by the wildfire Love to 

sloughs 
That swallow common sense, the 

spindling king, 
This Gama swamp'd in lazy tolerance. 
When the man wants weight, the 

woman takes it up, 
And topples down the scales; but this 

is fixt 
As are the roots of earth and base of 

all; 
Man for the field and woman for the 

hearth : 
Man for the sword and for the needle 

she : 
Man with the head and woman with 

heart : 
Man to command and woman to 

obey; 
All else confusion. Look you! the 

gray mare 
Is ill to live with, when her whinny 

shrills 
From tile to scullery, and her small 

goodman 
Shrinks in his arm-chair while the 

fires of Hell 
Mix with his hearth : but you —she's 

yet a colt — 
Take, break her : strongly groom'd and 

straitly curb'd 



She might not rank with those detest- 
able 
That let the bantling scald at home, 

and brawl 
Their rights or wrongs like potherbs 

in the street. 
They say she's comely; there's the 

fairer chance : 
/ like her none the less for rating at 

her! 
Besides, the woman wed is not as we, 
But suffers change of frame. A lusty 

brace 
Of twins may weed her of her folly. 

Boy, 
The bearing and training of a child 
Is woman's wisdom" 

Thus the hard old king : 
I took my leave, for it was nearly 

noon: 
I pored upon her letter which I held, 
And on the little clause " take not his 

life : " 
I mused on that wild morning in the 

woods, 
And on the " Follow, follow, thou shalt 

win : " 
I thought on all the wrathful king had 

said, 
And how the strange betrothment 

was to end : 
Then I remember'd that burnt sor- 
cerer's curse 
That one should fight with shadows 

and should fall; 
And like a flash the weird affection 

came : 
King, camp and college turn'd to hol- 
low shows ; 
I seem'd to move in old memorial tilts, 
And doing battle with forgotten 

ghosts, 
To dream myself the shadow of a 

dream : 
And ere I woke it was the point of 

noon, 
The lists were ready. Empanoplied 

and plumed 
We enter'd in, and waited, fifty there 
Opposed to fifty, till the trumpet 

blared 



424 



THE PRINCESS; A. MEDLEY. 



At the barrier like a wild horn in a 

land 
Of echoes, and a moment, and once 

more 
The trumpet, and again : at which the 

storm 
Of galloping hoofs bare on the ridge 

of spears 
And riders front to front, until they 

closed 
In conflict with the crash of shivering 

points, 
And thunder. Yet it seem'd a dream, 

I dream'd 
Of fighting. On his haunches rose 

the steed, 
And into fiery splinters leapt the 

lance, 
And out of stricken helmets sprang 

the fire. 
Part sat like rocks: part reePd but 

kept their seats : 
Part roll'd on the earth and rose 

again and drew : 
Part stumbled mixt with floundering 

horses. Down 
From those two bulks at Arac's side, 

and down 
From Arac's arm, as from a giant's 

flail, 
The large blows rain'd, as here and 

everywhere 
He rode the mellay, lord of the ring- 
ing lists, 
And all the plain, — brand, mace, and 

shaft, and shield — 
Shock'd, like an iron-clanging anvil 

bang'd 
With hammers ; till I thought, can 

this be he 
From Gama's dwarfish loins 1 if this 

be so, 
The mother makes us most — and in 

my dream 
I glanced aside, and saw the palace- 
front 
Alive with fluttering scarfs and ladies' 

eyes, 
And highest, among the statues, 

statue-like, 
Between a cymbal'd Miriam and a 

Jael, 



With Psyche's babe, was Ida watch- 
ing us, 

A single band of gold about her hair, 

Like a Saint's glory up in heaven . but 
she 

No saint — inexorable — no tender- 
ness — 

Too hard, too cruel : yet she sees me 
fight, 

Yea, let her see me fall ! with that I 
drave 

Among the thickest and bore down a 
Prince, 

And Cyril, one. Yea, let me make 
my dream 

All that I would. But that large- 
moulded man, 

His visage all agrin as at a wake, 

Made at me thro' the press, and, stag- 
gering back 

With stroke on stroke the horse and 
horseman, came 

As comes a pillar of electric cloud, 

Flaying the roofs and sucking up the 
drains, 

And shadowing down the champaign 
till it strikes 

On a wood, and takes, and breaks, and 
cracks, and splits, 

And twists the grain with such a roar 
that Earth 

Eeels, and the herdsmen cry; for 
everything 

Gave way before him : only Florian, he 

That loved me closer than his own 
right eye, 

Thrust in between; but Arac rode 
him down: 

And Cyril seeing it, push'd against 
the Prince, 

With Psyche's color round his helmet, 
tough, 

Strong, supple, sinew-corded, apt at 
arms ; 

But tougher, heavier, stronger, he that 
smote 

And threw him : last I spurr'd ; I felt 
my veins 

Stretch with fierce heat; a moment 
hand to hand, 

And sword to sword, and horse to 
horse we hung, 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



425 



Till I struck out and shouted ; the 

blade glanced, 
I did but shear a feather, and dream 

and truth 
Flow'd from me ; darkness closed me ; 

and I fell. 



Home they brought her warrior dead : 
She nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry : 

All her maidens, watching, said, 
" She must weep or she will die." 

Then they praised him, soft and low, 
CalPd him worthy to be loved, 

Truest frieud and noblest foe; 
Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 

Stole a maiden from her place, 

Lightly to the warrior stept 
Took the face-cloth from the face; 

Yet she neither moved nor wept. 

Rose a nurse of ninety years, 

Set his child upon her knee — 
Like summer tempest came her tears — 
" Sweet my child, I live for thee." 

My dream had never died or lived 

again. 
As in some mystic middle state I lay ; 
Seeing I saw not, hearing not I heard : 
Tho', if I saw not, yet they told me 

all 
So often that I speak as having seen. 

For so it seem'd, or so they said to 

me, 
That all things grew more tragic and 

more strange ; 
That when our side was vanquish'd 

and my cause 
For ever lost, there went up a great 

cry, 
The Prince is slain. My father heard 

and ran 
In on the lists, and there unlaced my 

casque 
And grovell'd on my body, and after 

him 
Came Psyche, sorrowing for Agla'ia. 

But high upon the palace Ida stood 
"With Psyche's babe in arm : there on 

the roofs 
Like that great dame of Lapidoth she 

sang. 



" Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n : the 
seed, 
The little seed they laugh 'd at in the dark, 
Has risen and cleft the soil, and grown a bulk 
Of spanless girth, that lays on every side 
A thousand arms and rushes to the Sun. 

" Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n : they 

came; 
The leaves were wet with women's tears : 

they heard 
A noise of songs they would not understand : 
They mark'd it with the red cross to the fall, 
And would have strown it, and are fall'n 

themselves. 

" Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n : they 

came, 
The woodmen with their axes : lo the tree ! 
But we will make it faggots for the hearth, 
And shape it plank and beam for roof and 

floor, 
And boats and bridges for the use of men. 

" Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n : they 

struck ; 
With their own blows they hurt themselves, 

nor knew 
There dwelt an iron nature in tne grain : 
The glittering axe was broken in their arms, 
Their arms were shatter'd to the shoulder 

blade. 

" Our enemies have fall'n, but this shall 

grow 
A night of Summer from the heat, a breadth 
Of Autumn, dropping fruits of power : and 

roll'd 
With music in the growing breeze of Time, 
The tops shall strike from star to star, the 

fangs 
Shall move the stony bases of the world. 

" And now, O maids, behold our 

sanctuary 
Is violate, our laws broken : fear we 

not 
To break them more in their behoof, 

whose arms 
Champion'd our cause and won it with 

a day 
Blanch'd in our annals, and perpetual 

feast, 
When dames and heroines of the 

golden year 
Shall strip a hundred hollows bare of 

Spring, 
To rain an April of ovation round 
Their statues, borne aloft, the three ; 

but come, 
■ Ve will be liberal, since our rights 

are won. 



426 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



Let them not lie in the tents with 

coarse mankind, 
111 nurses ; but descend, and proffer 

these 
The brethren of our blood and cause, 

that there 
Lie bruised and maim'd, the tender 

ministries 
Of female hands and hospitality." 

She spoke, and with the babe yet 

in her arms, 
Descending, burst the great bronze 

valves, and led 
A hundred maids in train across the 

Park. 
Some cowl'd, and some bare-headed, 

on they came, 
Their feet in flowers, her loveliest : 

by them went 
The enamor'd air sighing, and on 

their curls 
From the high tree the blossom waver- 
ing fell, 
And over them the tremulous isles of 

light 
Slided, they moving under shade : but 

Blanche 
At distance follow'd : so they came : 

anon 
Thro' open field into the lists they 

wound 
Timorously ; and as the leader of the 

herd 
That holds a stately fretwork to the 

Sun, 
And follow'd up by a hundred airy 

does, 
Steps with a tender foot, light as on 

air, 
The lovely, lordly creature floated 

on 
To where her wounded brethren lay ; 

there stay'd; 
Knelt on one knee, — the child on one, 

— and prest 
Their hands, and call'd them dear 

deliverers, 
And happy warriors, and immortal 

names, 
And said "You shall not lie in the 

tents but here, 



And nursed by those for whom you 

fought, and served 
With female hands and hospitality." 

Then, whether moved by this, or 

was it chance, 
She past my way. Up started from 

my side 
The old lion, glaring with his whelp- 
less eye, 
Silent; but when she saw me lying 

stark, 
Dishelm'd and mute, and motionlessly 

pale, 
Cold ev'n to her, she sigh'd ; and when 

she saw 
The haggard father's face and rev- 
erend beard 
Of grisly twine, all dabbled with the 

blood 
Of his own son, shudder'd, a twitch of 

pain 
Tortured her mouth, and o'er her 

forehead past 
A shadow, and her hue changed, and 

she said : 
" He saved my life : my brother slew 

him for it." 
No more : at which the king in bitter 

scorn 
Drew from my neck the painting and 

the tress, 
And held them up : she saw them, 

and a day 
Rose from the distance on her memory, 
When the good Queen, her mother, 

shore the tress 
With kisses, ere the days of Lady 

Blanche : 
And then once more she look'd at my 

pale face : 
Till understanding all the foolish 

work 
Of fancy, and the bitter close of all, 
Her iron will was broken in her 

mind; 
Her noble heart was molten in her 

breast ; 
She bow'd, she set the child on the 

earth ; she laid 
A feeling finger on my brows, and 

presently 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



427 



' O Sire," she said, " he lives : he is 

not dead : 
O let rue have him with my brethren 

here 
In our own palace : we will tend on 

him 
Like one of these : if so, by any 

means, 
To lighten this great clog of thanks, 

that make 
Our progress falter to the woman's 

goal." 

She said : but at the happy word 

" he lives " 
My father stoop'd, re-f ather'd o'er my 

wounds. 
So those two foes above my fallen life, 
With brow to brow like night and 

evening mixt 
Their dark and gray, while Psyche 

ever stole 
A little nearer, till the babe that by 

us, 
Half-lapt in glowing gauze and golden 

brede, 
Lay like a new-fall'n meteor on the 

grass, 
Uncared for, spied its mother and 

began 
A blind and babbling laughter, and 

to dance 
Its body, and reach its fatling inno- 
cent arms 
And lazy lingering fingers. She the 

appeal 
Brook'd not, but clamoring out " Mine 

— mine — not yours, 
It is not yours, but mine : give me the 

child" 
Ceased all on tremble : piteous was 

the cry : 
So stood the unhappy mother open- 

mouth'd, 
And turn'd each face her way : wan 

was her cheek 
With hollow watch, her blooming 

mantle torn, 
Red grief and mother's hunger in her 

eye, 
And down dead-heavy sank her curls, 

and half 



The sacred mother's bosom, panting, 

burst 
The laces toward her babe ; but she 

nor cared 
Nor knew it, clamoring on, till Ida 

heard, 
Look'd up, and rising slowly from me, 

stood 
Erect and silent, striking with her 

glance 
The mother, me, the child; but he 

that lay 
Beside us, Cyril, batter'd as he was, 
Trail'd himself up on one knee : then 

he drew 
Her robe to meet his lips, and down 

she look'd 
At the arm'd man sideways, pitying 

as it seem'd, 
Or self -involved ; but when she learnt 

his face, 
Remembering his ill-omen'd song, 

arose 
Once more thro' all her height, and 

o'er him grew 
Tall as a figure lengthen'd on the sand 
When the tide ebbs in sunshine, and 

he said : 

" O fair and strong and terrible ! 

Lioness 
That with your long locks play the 

Lion's mane! 
But Love and Nature, these are two 

more terrible 
And stronger. See, your foot is on 

our necks, 
We vanquish'd, you the Victor of 

your will. 
What would you more 1 give her the 

child ! remain 
Orb'd in your isolation : he is dead, 
Or all as dead : henceforth we let you 

be: 
Win you the hearts of women; and 

beware 
Lest, where you seek the common 

love of these, 
The common hate with the revolving 

wheel 
Should drag you down, and some 

great Nemesis 



428 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



Break from a darken'd future, crown'd 

with fire, 
And tread you out for ever : but how- 

soe'er 
Fix'd in yourself, never in your own 

arms 
To hold your own, deny not hers to 

her, 
Give her the child ! O if , I say, you 

keep 
One pulse that beats true woman, if 

you loved 
The breast that fed or arm that dan- 
dled you, 
Or own one port of sense not flint to 

prayer, 
Give her the child! or if you scorn 

to lay it, 
Yourself, in hands so lately claspt 

with yours, 
Or speak to her, your dearest, her 

one fault 
The tenderness, not yours, that could 

not kill, 
Give me it: / will give it her." 

He said : 
At first her eye with slow dilation 

roll'd 
Dry flame, she listening; after sank 

and sank 
And, into mournful twilight mellow- 
ing, dwelt 
Full on the child ; she took it : 

"Pretty bud! 
Lily of the vale ! half open'd bell of 

the woods ! 
Sole comfort of my dark hour, when 

a world 
Of traitorous friend and broken sys- 
tem made 
No purple in the distance, mystery, 
Pledge of a love not to be mine, 

farewell ; 
These men are hard upon us as of old, 
We two must part : and yet how fain 

was I 
To dream thy cause embraced in 

mine, to think 
I might be something to thee, when I 

felt 
Thy helpless warmth about my barren 

breast 



In the dead prime : but may thy 

mother prove 
As true to thee as false, false, false to 

me ! 
And, if thou needs must bear the 

yoke, I wish it 
Gentle as freedom " — here she kiss'd 

it : then — 
" All good go with thee ! take it, Sir," 

and so 
Laid the soft babe in his hard-mailed 

hands, 
Who turn'd half-round to Psyche as 

she sprang 
To meet it, with an eye that swum in 

thanks ; 
Then felt it sound and whole from 

head to foot, 
And hugg'd and never hugg'd it close 

enough, 
And in her hunger mouth'd and mum- 
bled it, 
And hid her bosom with it ; after that 
Put on more calm and added suppli- 

antly : 

" We two were friends : I go to 

mine own land 
For ever : find some other : as for me 
I scarce am fit for your great plans : 

yet speak to me, 
Say one soft word and let me part 

forgiven." 

But Ida spoke not, rapt upon the 

child. 
Then Arac. "Ida — 'sdeath! you 

blame the man ; 
You wrong yourselves — the woman 

is so hard 
Upon the woman. Come, a grace to 

me! 
I am your warrior : I and mine have 

fought 
Your battle: kiss her; take her hand, 

she weeps : 
'Sdeath ! I would sooner fight thrice 

o'er than see it." 

But Ida spoke not, gazing on the 
ground, 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



429 



And reddening in the furrows of his 

chin, 
And moved beyond his custom, Gama 

said: 

" I've heard that there is iron in the 

blood, 
And I believe it. Not one word ? not 

one ? 
Whence drew you this steel temper ? 

not from me, 
Not from your mother, now a saint 

with saints. 
She said you had a heart — I heard 

her say it — 
' Our Ida has a heart' — just ere she 

died — 
'But see that some one with authority 
Be near her still' and I — I sought 

for one — 
All people said she had authority — 
The Lady Blanche : much profit ! 

Not one word ; 
No ! tho' your father sues : see how 

you stand 
Stiff as Lot's wife, and all the good 

knights maim'd, 
I trust that there is no one hurt to 

death, 
For your wild whim : and was it then 

for this, 
Was it for this we gave our palace up, 
Where we withdrew from summer 

heats and state, 
And had our wine and chess beneath 

the planes, 
And many a pleasant hour with her 

that's gone, 
Ere you were born to vex us 1 Is it 

kind? 
Speak to her I say : is this not she of 

whom, 
When first she came, all flush'd you 

said to me 
Now had you got a friend of your 

own age, 
Now could you share your thought ; 

now should men see 
Two women faster welded in one 

love 
Than pairs of wedlock; she you 

walk'd with, she 



You talk'd with, whole nights long, up 

in the tower, 
Of sine and arc, spheroid and azimuth, 
And right ascension, Heaven knows 

what ; and now 
A word, but one, one little kindly 

word, 
Not one to spare her : out upon you, 

flint! 
You love nor her, nor me, nor any ; 

nay, 
You shame your mother's judgment 

too. Not one ? 
You will not? well — no heart have 

you, or such 
As fancies like the vermin in a nut 
Have fretted all to dust and bitter- 
ness." 
So said the small king moved beyond 

his wont. 

But Ida stood nor spoke, drain'd of 

her force 
By many a varying influence and so 

long. 
Down thro' her limbs a drooping lan- 
guor wept : 
Her head a little bent; and on her 

mouth 
A doubtful smile dwelt like a clouded 

moon 
In a still water : then brake out my 

sire, 
Lifting his grim head from my 

wounds. " O you, 
Woman, whom we thought woman 

even now, 
And were half fool'd to let you tend 

our son, 
Because he might have wish'd it — 

but we see 
The accomplice of your madness un 

forgiven, 
And think that you might mix his 

draught with death, 
When your skies change again : the 

rougher hand 
Is safer : on to the tents : take up the 

Prince." 

He rose, and while each ear was 
prick'd to attend 



430 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



A tempest, thro' the cloud that 

dimm'd her broke 
A genial warmth and light once 

more, and shone 
Thro' glittering drops on her sad 

friend. 

" Come hither, 

Psyche," she cried out, " embrace 

me, come 

Quick while I melt ; make reconcile- 
ment sure 

With one that cannot keep her mind 
an hour: 

Come to the hollow heart they slander 
so ! 

Kiss and be friends, like children 
being chid ! 

/ seem no more : I want forgiveness 
too: 

1 should have had to do with none 

but maids, 
That have no links with men. Ah 

false but dear, 
Dear traitor, too much loved, why ? — 

why ? — Yet see, 
Before these kings we embrace you 

yet once more 
With all forgiveness, all oblivion, 
And trust, not love, you less. 

And now, O sire, 
Grant me your son, to nurse, to wait 

upon him, 
Like mine own brother. For my debt 

to him, 
This nightmare weight of gratitude, I 

know it ; 
Taunt me no more : yourself and 

yours shall have 
Free adit ; we will scatter all our 

maids 
Till happier times each to her proper 

hearth : 
What use to keep them here — now ? 

grant my prayer. 
Help, father, brother, help ; speak to 

the king : 
Thaw this male nature to some touch 

of that 
Which kills me with myself, and 

drags me down 
From my fixt height to mob me up 

with all 



The soft and milky rabble of woman- 
kind, 
Poor weakling ev'n as they are." 

Passionate tears 
Follow'd : the king replied not : Cyril 

said : 
" Your brother, Lady — Florian, — 

ask for him 
Of your great head — for he is 

wounded too — 
That you may tend upon him with the 

prince." 
" Ay so," said Ida with a bitter smile, 
" Our laws are broken : let him enter 

too." 
Then Violet, she that sang the mourn- 
ful song, 
And had a cousin tumbled on the plain, 
Petition'd too for him. " Ay so," she 

said, 
"I stagger in the stream : I cannot keep 
My heart an eddy' from the brawling 

hour: 
We break our laws with ease, but let 

it be." 
" Ay so % " said Blanche : " Amazed 

am I to hear 
Your Highness : but your Highness 

breaks with ease 
The law your Highness did not make : 

'twas I. 
I had been wedded wife, I knew man- 
kind, 
And block'd them out ; but these men 

came to woo 
Your Highness — verily I think to 



So she, and turn'd askance a wintry 

eye: 
But Ida with a voice, that like a bell 
Toll'd by an earthquake in a trembling 

tower, 
Eang ruin, answer'd full of grief and 

scorn. 

" Fling our doors wide ! all, all, not 

one, but all, 
Not only he, but by my mother's soul, 
Whatever man lies wounded, friend 

or foe, 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



431 



Shall enter, if he will. Let our girls 

flit, 
Till the storm die ! but had you stood 

by us, 
The roar that breaks the Pharos from 

his base 
Had left us rock. She fain would 

sting us too, 
But shall not. Pass, and mingle with 

your likes. 
We brook no further insult but are 

gone." 

She turn'd ; the very nape of her 

white neck 
Was rosed with indignation : but the 

Prince 
Her brother came ; the king her father 

charm'd 
Her wounded soul with words: nor 

did mine own 
Refuse her proffer, lastly gave his 

hand. 

Then us they lifted up, dead 

weights, and bare 
Straight to the doors: to them the 

doors gave way 
Groaning, and in the Vestal entry 

shriek'd 
The virgin marble under iron heels : 
And on they moved and gain'd the 

hall, and there 
Rested . but great the crush was, and 

each base, 
To left and right, of those tall columns 

drown'd 
In silken fluctuation and the swarm 
Of female whisperers : at the further 

end 
Was Ida by the throne, the two great 

cats 
Close by her, like supporters on a 

shield, 
Bow-back'd with fear : but in the cen- 
tre stood 
The common men with rolling eyes; 

amazed 
They glared upon the women, and 

aghast 
The women stared ;>t these, all silent, 

save 



When armor clash'd or jingled, 

while the day, 
Descending, struck athwart the hall, 

and shot 
A flying splendor out of brass and 

steel, 
That o'er the statues leapt from head 

to head, 
Now fired an angry Pallas on the 

helm, 
Now set a wrathful Dian's moon on 

flame, 
And now and then an echo started 

up, 
And shuddering fled from room to 

room, and died 
Of fright in far apartments. 

Then the voice 
Of Ida sounded, issuing ordinance : 
And me they bore up the broad stairs, 

and thro' 
The long-laid galleries past a hundred 

doors 
To one deep chamber shut from 

sound, and due 
To languid limbs and sickness ; left 

me in it; 
And others otherwhere they laid ; and 

all 
That afternoon a sound arose of hoof 
And chariot, many a maiden passing 

home 
Till happier times ; but some were left 

of those 
Held sagest, and the great lords out 

and in, 
From those two hosts that lay beside 

the walls, 
Walked at their will, and everything 

was chang'd. 

vn. 

Ask me no more: the moon may draw the 
sea; 
The cloud may stoop from heaven and 

take the shape 
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape; 
But O too fond, when have I answer'd thee? 

Ask me no more. 
Ask me no more : what answer should I 
give? 
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye: 
Yet, O my friend, I will not. have thee die! 
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live; 
Ask me no more. 



432 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are 
seal'd : 
I strove against the stream and all in vain : 
Let the great river take me to the main : 
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield; 
Ask me no more. 

So was their sanctuary violated, 
So their fair college turn'd to hos- 
pital ; 
At first with all confusion: by and 

t>y 

Sweet order lived again with other 

laws: 
A kindlier influence reign'd ; and 

everywhere 
Low voices with the ministering hand 
Hung round the sick: the maidens 

came, they talk'd, 
They sang, they read : till she not fair 

began 
To gather light, and she that was, be- 
came 
Her former beauty treble ; and to and 

fro 
With books, with flowers, with Angel 

offices, 
Like creatures native unto gracious 

act, 
And in their own clear element, they 

moved. 

But sadness on the soul of Ida fell, 
And hatred of her weakness, blent 

with shame. 
Old studies f ail'd ; seldom she spoke : 

but oft 
Clomb to the roofs, and gazed alone 

for hours 
On that disastrous leaguer, swarms of 

men 
Darkening her female field : void was 

her use, 
And she as one that climbs a peak to 

gaze 
O'er land and main, and sees a great 

black cloud 
Drag inward from the deeps, a wall 

of night, 
Blot out the slope of sea from verge 

to shore, 
And suck the blinding splendor from 

the sand, 



And quenching lake by lake and tarn 
by tarn 

Expunge the world : so fared she gaz- 
ing there ; 

So blacken'd all her world in secret, 
blank 

And waste it seem'd and vain ; till 
down she came, 

And found fair peace once more among 
the sick. 

And twilight dawn'd ; and morn by 
morn the lark 

Shot up and shrill'd in flickering gyres, 
but I 

Lay silent in the muffled cage of life : 

And twilight gloom'd; and broader- 
grown the bowers 

Drew the great night into themselves, 
and Heaven, 

Star after star, arose and fell ; but I, 

Deeper than those weird doubts could 
reach me, lay 

Quite sunder'd from the moving Uni- 
verse, 

Nor knew what eye was on me, nor 
the hand 

That nursed me, more than infants in 
their sleep. 

But Psyche tended Florian : with 

her oft, 
Melissa came ; for Blanche had gone, 

but left 
Her child among us, willing she should 

keep 
Court-favor ■ here and there the small 

bright head, 
A light of healing, glanced about the 

couch, 
Or thro' the parted silks the tender face 
Peep'd, shining in upon the wounded 

man 
With blush and smile, a medicine in 

themselves 
To wile the length from languorous 

hours, and draw 
The sting from pain; nor seem'd it 

strange that soon 
He rose up whole, and those fair 

charities 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



433 



Join'd at her side ; nor stranger seem'd 

that hearts 
So gentle, so employ 'd, should close 

in love, 
Than when two dewdrops on the petal 

shake 
To the same sweet air, and tremble 

deeper down. 
And slip at once all-fragrant into one. 

Less prosperously the second suit 

obtain 'd 
At first with Psyche. Not tho" Blanche 

had sworn 
That after that dark night among the 

fields 
She needs must wed him for her own 

good name ; 
Not tho' he built upon the babe re- 
stored ; 
Nor tho' she liked him, yielded she, 

but fear'd 
To incense the Head once more ; till 

on a day 
When Cyril pleaded, Ida came behind 
Seen but of Psyche : on her foot she 

hung 
A moment, and she heard, at which 

her face 
A little fiush'd, and she past on ; but 

each 
Assumed from thence a half -consent 

involved 
In stillness, plighted troth, and were 

at peace. 

Nor only these : Love in the sacred 

halls 
Held carnival at will, and flying struck 
With showers of random sweet on 

maid and man. 
Nor did her father cease to press my 

claim, 
Nor did mine own now reconciled ; nor 

yet 
Did those twin brothers, risen again 

and whole ; 
Nor Arac, satiate with his victory. 

But I lay still, and with me oft she 
sat: 



Then came a change ; for sometimes 

I would catch 
Her hand in wild delirium, gripe it hard, 
And fling it like a viper off, and shriek 
" Youarenotlda;" clasp it once again, 
And call her Ida, tho' I know her not, 
And call her sweet, as if in irony, 
And call her hard and cold which 

seem'd a truth : 
And still she fear'd that I should lose 

my mind, 
And often she believed that I should 

die : 
Till out of long frustration of her care, 
And pensive tendance in the all-weary 

noons, 
And watches in the dead, the dark, 

when clocks 
Throbb'd thunder thro* the palace 

floors, or cail'd 
On flying Time from all their silver 

tongues — 
And out of memories of her kindlier 

days, 
And sidelong glances at my father's 

grief, 
And at the happy lovers heart in 

heart — 
And out of hauntings of my spoken 

love, 
And lonely listenings to my mutter'd 

dream, 
And often feeling of the helpless 

hands, 
And wordless broodings on the wasted 

cheek — 
From all a closer interest flourish'd up, 
Tenderness touch by touch, and last, 

to these, 
Love, like an Alpine harebell hung 

with tears 
By some cold morning glacier; frail 

at first 
And feeble, all unconscious of itself, 
But such as gather'd color day by day. 

Last I woke sane, but well-nigh close 

to death 
For weakness : it was evening : silent 

light 
Slept on the painted walls, wherein 

were wrought 



434 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



Two grand designs ; for on one side 

arose 
The women up in wild revolt, and 

storm'd 
At the Oppian law. Titanic shapes, 

they cramm'd 
The forum, and half-crush'd among 

the rest 
A dwarf-like Cato cower'd. On the 

other side 
Hortensia spoke against the tax ; he- 
hind, 
A train of dames : by axe and eagle 

sat, 
With all their foreheads drawn in 

Roman scowls, 
And half the wolf's-milk curdled in 

their veins, 
The fierce triumvirs ; and before them 

paused 
Hortensia pleading: angry was her 

face. 



I saw the forms : I knew not where 

I was : 
They did but look like hollow shows ; 

nor more 
Sweet Ida : palm to palm she sat : the 

dew 
Dwelt in her eyes, and softer all her 

shape 
And rounder seem'd : I moved : I 

sigh'd : a touch 
Came round my wrist, and tears upon 

my hand : 
Then all for languor and self-pity ran 
Mine down my face, and with what 

life I had, 
And like a flower that cannot all un- 
fold, 
So drench'd it is with tempest, to the 

sun, 
Yet, as it may, turns toward him, I on 

her 
Fixt my faint eyes, and utter'd whis- 

peringly : 

" If you be, what I think you, some 
sweet dream, 
I would but ask you to fulfil yourself : 
But if you be that Ida whom I knew, 



I ask you nothing : only, if a dream, 
Sweet dream, be perfect. I shall die 

to-night. 
Stoop down and seem to kiss me ere I 

die." 



I could no more, but lay like one in 

trance, 
That hears his burial talk" d of by his 

friends, 
And cannot speak, nor move, nor 

make one sign, 
But lies and dreads his doom. She 

turn'd ; she paused ; 
She stoop'd ; and out of languor leapt 

a cry; 
Leapt fiery Passion from the brinks of 

death ; 
And I believed that in the living world 
My spirit closed with Ida's at the lips ; 
Till back I fell, and from mine arms 

she rose 
Glowing all over noble shame ; and all 
Her falser self slipt from her like a 

robe, 
And left her woman, lovelier in her 

mood 
Than in her mould that other, when 

she came 
From barren deeps to conquer all 

with love ; 
And down the streaming crystal 

dropt ; and she 
Far-fleeted by the purple island-sides, 
Naked, a double light in air and wave, 
To meet her Graces, where they 

deck'd her out 
For worship without end ; nor end of 

mine, 
Stateliest, for thee ! but mute she 

glided forth, 
Nor glanced behind her, and I sank 

and slept, 
Fill'd thro' and thro' with Love, a 

happy sleep. 

Deep in the night I woke : she, near 

me, held 
A volume of the Poets of her land : 
There to herself, all in low tones, she 

read. 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



435 



"Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the 
white; 
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk ; 
Nor winks the gold tin in the porphyry font: 
The fire-fly wakens : waken thou with me. 

Now droops the milkwhite peacock like a 
ghost, 
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me. 

Now lies the earth all Danae to the stars, 
And all thy heart lies open unto me. 

Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves 
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me. 

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, 
And slips into the bosom of the lake : 
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip 
Into my bosom and be lost in me." 

I heard her turn the page; she 
found a small 
Sweet Idyl, and once more, as low, 
she read : 

" Come down, O maid, from yonder moun- 
tain height : 
What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd 

sang) 
In height and cold, the splendor of the hills? 
But cease to move so near the Heavens, and 

cease 
To glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine, 
To sit a star upon the sparkling spire; 
And come, for Love is of the valley, come, 
For Love is of the valley, come thou down 
And rind him ; by the happy threshold, he, 
Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize, 
Or red with spirted purple of the vats, 
Or foxlike in the vine; nor cares to walk 
With Death and Morning on the silver horns, 
Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine, 
Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice, 
That huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls 
To roll the torrent out of dusky doors : 
But follow; let the torrent dance thee down 
To find him in the valley; let the Avild 
Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave 
The monstrous ledges there to slope, and 

spill 
Their thousand wreaths of dangling water- 
smoke, 
That like a broken purpose waste in air: 
So waste not thou ; but come ; for all the vales 
Await thee; azure pillars of the hearth 
Arise to thee; the children call, and I 
Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound, 
Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; 
Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, 
The moan of doves in immemorial elms, 
And murmuring of innumerable bees." 

So she low-toned ; while with shut 
eyes I lay 



Listening; then look'd. Pale was the 

perfect face; 
The bosom with long sighs labor'd; 

and meek 
Seem'd the full lips, and mild the 

luminous eyes, 
And the voice trembled and the hand. 

She said 
Brokenly, that she knew it, she had 

fail'd 
In sweet humility ; had fail'd in all ; 
That all her labor was but as a block 
Left in the quarry ; but she* still were 

loth, 
She still were loth to yield herself to 

one 
That wholly scorn'd to help their 

equal rights 
Against the sons of men, and barbar- 
ous laws. 
She pray'd me not to judge their 

cause from her 
That wrong'd it, sought far less for 

truth than power 
In knowledge : something wild within 

her breast, 
A greater than all knowledge, beat 

her down. 
And she had nursed me there from 

week to week : 
Much had she learnt in little time. 

In part 
It was ill counsel had misled the girl 
To vex true hearts : yet was she but a 

girl — 
" Ah fool, and made myself a Queen 

of farce ! 
When comes another such 1 never, I 

think, 
Till the Sun drop, dead, from the 

signs." 

Her voice 
Choked, and her forehead sank upon 

her hands, 
And her great heart thro' all the 

faultful Past 
Went sorrowing in a pause I dared 

not break ; 
Till notice of a change in the dark 

world 
Was lispt about the acacias, and a 

bird, 



436 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



That early woke to feed her little ones, 
Sent from a dewy breast a cry for 

light : 
She moved, and at her feet the volume 

fell. 

"Blame not thyself too much/' I 
said, " nor blame 

Too much the sons of men and bar- 
barous laws ; 

These were the rough ways of the 
world till now. 

Henceforth thou hast a helper, me, 
that know 

The woman's cause is man's : they 
rise or sink 

Together, dwarf 'd or godlike, bond or 
free: 

For she that out of Lethe scales with 
man 

The shining steps of Nature, shares 
with man 

His nights, his days, moves with him 
to one goal, 

Stays all the fair young planet in her 
hands — 

If she be small, slight-natured, miser- 
able, 

How shall men grow ? but work no 
more alone ! 

Our place is much : as far as in us lies 

We two will serve them both in aid- 
ing her — 

Will clear away the parasitic forms 

That seem to keep her up but drag 
her down — 

Will leave her space to burgeon out 
of all 

Within her — let her make herself 
her own 

To give or keep, to live and learn and 
be 

All that not harms distinctive woman- 
hood. 

For woman is not undevelopt man, 

But diverse : could we make her as 
the man, 

Sweet Love were slain : his dearest 
bond is this, 

Not like to like, but like in difference. 

Yet in the long years liker must they 
grow ; 



The man be more of woman, she of 

man; 
He gain in sweetness and in moral 

height, 
Nor lose the wrestling thews that 

throw the world ; 
She mental breadth, nor fail in child- 
ward care, 
Nor lose the childlike in the larger 

mind; 
Till at the last she set herself to man, 
Like perfect music unto noble words ; 
And so these twain, upon the skirts of 

Time, 
Sit side by side, full-summ'd in all 

their powers, 
Dispensing harvest, sowing the To-be, 
Self-reverent each and reverencing 

each, 
Distinct in individualities, 
But like each other ev'n as those who 

love. 
Then comes the statelier Eden back 

to men : 
Then reign the world's great bridals, 

chaste and calm : 
Then springs the crowning race of 

human-kind. 
May these things be ! " 

Sighing she spoke "I fear 
They will not." 

" Dear, but let us type them now 
In our own lives, and this proud 

watchword rest 
Of equal ; seeing either sex alone 
Is half itself, and in true marriage lies 
Nor equal, nor unequal : each fulfils 
Defect in each, and always thought 

in thought, 
Purpose in purpose, will in will, they 

grow, 
The single pure and perfect animal, 
The two-cell'd heart beating, with one 

full stroke, 
Life." 

And again sighing she spoke : " A 

dream 
That once was mine ! what woman 

taught you this ? " 



" Alone," I said, 
I know, 



from earlier than 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



437 



Immersed in rich foreshadowings of 
the world, 

I loved the woman : he, that doth not, 
lives 

A drowning life, besotted in sweet 
self, 

Or pines in sad experience worse than 
death, 

Or keeps his wing'd affections dipt 
with crime : 

Yet was there one thro' whom I loved 
her, one 

Not learned, save in gracious house- 
hold ways, 

Not perfect, nay, but full of tender 
wants, 

No Angel, but a dearer being, all 
dipt 

In Angel instincts, breathing Para- 
dise, 

Interpreter between the Gods and 
men, 

Who look'd all native to her place, 
and yet 

On tiptoe seem'd to touch upon a 
sphere 

Too gross to tread, and all male 
minds perforce 

Sway'd to her from their orbits as 
they moved, 

And girdled her with music. Happy 
he 

With such a mother ! faith in woman- 
kind 

Beats with his blood, and trust in all 
things high 

Comes easy to him, and tho' he trip 
and fall 

He shall not blind his soul with clay." 
" But I," 

Said Ida, tremulously, " so all un- 
like — 

It seems you love to cheat yourself 
with words: 

This mother is your model. I have 
heard 

Of your strange doubts : they well 
might be : I seem 

A mockery to my own self. Never, 
Prince ; 

You cannot love me." 

" Nay but thee," I said 



" From yearlong poring on thy pic- 
tured eyes, 
Ere seen I loved, and loved thee seen, 

and saw 
Thee woman thro' the crust of iron 

moods 
That mask'd thee from men's rever* 

ence up, and forced 
Sweet love on pranks of saucy boy- 
hood: now, 
Giv'n. back to life, to life indeed, thro' 

thee, 
Indeed I love : the new day comes, the 

light 
Dearer for night, as dearer thou for 

faults 
Lived over : lift thine eyes ; my doubts 

are dead, 
My haunting sense of hollow shows • 

the change, 
This truthful change in thee has kill'd 

it. Dear, 
Look up, and let thy nature strike on 

mine, 
Like yonder morning on the blind 

half-world ; 
Approach and fear not ; breathe upon 

my brows ; 
In that fine air I tremble, all the past 
Melts mist-like into this bright hour, 

and this 
Is morn to more, and all the rich to- 
come 
Reels, as the golden Autumn wood- 
land reels 
Athwart the smoke of burning weeds. 

Forgive me, 
I waste my heart in signs : let be. My 

bride, 
My wife, my life. O we will walk this 

world, 
Yoked in all exercise of noble end, 
And so thro' those dark gates across 

the wild 
That no man knows. Indeed I love 

thee : come, 
Yield thyself up : my hopes and thine 

are one : 
Accomplish thou my manhood and 

thyself ; 
Lay thy sweet hands in mine and 

trust to me." 



438 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



CONCLUSION. 

So closed our tale, of which I give 

you all 
The random scheme as wildly as it 

rose: 
The words are mostly mine ; for when 

we ceased 
There came a minute's pause, and 

Walter said, 
" I wish she had not yielded ! " then to 

me, 
" What, if you drest it up poetically ! " 
So pray'd the men, the women : I gave 

assent : 
Yet how to bind the scatter'd scheme 

of seven 
Together in one sheaf ? What style 

could suit 1 
The men required that I should give 

throughout 
The sort of mock-heroic gigantesque, 
With which we banter'd little Lilia 

first : 
The women — and perhaps they felt 

their power, 
For something in the ballads which 

they sang, 
Or in their silent influence as they sat, 
Had ever seem'd to wrestle with bur- 
lesque, 
And drove us, last, to quite a solemn 

close — 
They hated banter, wish'd for some- 
thing real, 
A gallant fight, a noble princess — 

why 
Not make her true-heroic — true- 
sublime 1 
Or all, they said, as earnest as the 

close ? 
Which yet with such a framework 

scarce could be. 
Then rose a little feud betwixt the 

two, 
Betwixt the mockers and the realists : 
And I, betwixt them both, to please 

them both, 
And yet to give the story as it rose, 
I moved as in a strange diagonal, 
And maybe neither pleased myself 

nor them. 



But Lilia pleased me, for she took 

no part 
In our dispute : the sequel of the tale 
Had touch'd her; and she sat, she 

pluck'd the grass, 
She flung it from her, thinking : last, 

she fixt 
A showery glance upon her aunt, and 

said, 
" You — tell us what we are " who 

might have told, 
For she was cramm'd with theories 

out of books, 
But that there rose a shout : the gates 

were closed 
At sunset, and the crowd were swarm- 
ing now, 
To take their leave, about the garden 

rails. 

So I and some went out to these : 
we climb'd 

The slope to Vivian-place, and turn- 
ing saw 

The happy valleys, half in light, and 
half 

Far-shadowing from the west, a land 
of peace ; 

Gray halls alone among their massive 
groves ; 

Trim hamlets ; here and there a rustic 
tower 

Half-lost in belts of hop and breadths 
of wheat ; 

The shimmering glimpses of a stream : 
the seas ; 

A red sail, or a white; and far be- 
yond, 

Imagined more than seen, the skirts 
of France. 

" Look there, a garden ! " said my 

college friend, 
The Tory member's elder son, " and 

there ! 
God bless the narrow sea which keeps 

her off, 
And keeps our Britain, whole within 

herself, 
A nation yet, the rulers and the 

ruled — 
Some sense of duty, something of a 

faith, 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



439 



Some reverence for the laws ourselves 

have made, 
Some patient force to change them 

when we will, 
Some civic manhood firm against the 

crowd — 
But yonder, whiff ! there comes a sud- 
den heat, 
The gravest citizen seems to lose his 

head, 
The king is scared, the soldier will 

not fight, 
The little boys begin to shoot and 

stab, 
A kingdom topples over with a shriek 
Like an old woman, and down rolls 

the world 
In mock heroics stranger than our 

own ; 
Revolts, republics, revolutions, most 
No graver than a schoolboys' barring 

out ; 
Too comic for the solemn things they 

are, 
Too solemn for the comic touches in 

them, 
Like our wild Princess with as wise 

a dream 
As some of theirs — God bless the 

narrow seas ! 
I wish they were a whole Atlantic 

broad." 

"Have patience," I replied, "our- 
selves are full 
Of social wrong; and maybe wildest 

dreams 
Are but the needful preludes of the 

truth : 
For me, the genial day, the happy 

crowd, 
The sport half-science, fill me with a 

faith, 
This fine old world of ours is but a 

child 
Yet in the go-cart. Patience ! Give 

it time 
To learn its limbs : there is a hand 

that guides." 

In such discourse we gain'd the 
garden rails, 



And there we saw Sir Walter where 

he stood, 
Before a tower of crimson holly-oaks, 
Among six boys, head under head, 

and look'd 
No little lily-handed Baronet he, 
A great broad-shoulder'd genial Eng- 
lishman, 
A lord of fat prize-oxen and of sheep, 
A raiser of huge melons and of pine, 
A patron of some thirty charities, 
A pamphleteer on guano and on 

grain, 
A quarter-sessions chairman, abler 

none; 
Fair-hair'd and redder than a windy 

morn; 
Now shaking hands with him, now 

him, of those 
That stood the nearest — now ad- 

dress'd to speech — 
Who spoke few words and pithy, such 

as closed 
Welcome, farewell, and welcome for 

the year 
To follow : a shout rose again, and 

made 
The long line of the approaching 

rookery swerve 
From the broad elms, and shook the 

branches of the deer 
From slope to slope thro' distant ferns, 

and rang 
Beyond the bourn of sunset; O, a 

shout 
More joyful than the city-roar that 

hails 
Premier or king! Why should not 

these great Sirs 
Give up their parks some dozen times 

a year 
To let the people breathe 1 So thrice 

they cried, 
I likewise, and in groups they stream'd 

away. 

But we went back to the Abbey, 

and sat on, 
So much the gathering darkness 

charm'd : we sat 
But spoke not, rapt in nameless 

reverie, 



440 MA UD. 



Perchance upon the future man : the 

walls 
Blacken'd about us, bats wheel'd, and 

owls whoop'd, 
And gradually the powers of the 

night, 
That range above the region of the 

wind, 
Deepening the courts of twilight 

broke them up 



Thro' all the silent spaces of the 

worlds, 
Beyond all thought into the Heaven 

of Heavens. 

Last little Lilia, rising quietly, 
Disrobed the glimmering statue of 

Sir Ralph 
From those rich silks, and home well- 
pleased we went. 



i m 



a. 



(A** 



MAUD; A MONODRAMA. 



7" 

I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood, 
Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-red heath, 
The red-ribb'd ledges drip with a silent horror of blood, J 
And Echo there, whatever is ask'd her, answers " Death." 

ii. 

For there in the ghastly pit long since a body was found, 
His who had given me life — O father ! O God ! was it well ? — 
Mangled, and flatten'd, and crush'd, and dinted into the ground : 
There yet lies the rock that fell with him when he fell. 

in. 
Did he fling himself down 1 who knows 1 for a vast speculation had f ail'd, 
And ever he mutter'd and madden'd, and ever wann'd with despair, 
And out he walk'd when the wind like a broken worldling wail'd, 
And the flying gold of the ruin'd woodlands drove thro' the air. 

IV. 

I remember the time, for the roots of my hair were stirr'd 
By a shuffled step, by a dead weight trail' d, by a whisper 'd fright, 
And my pulses closed their gates with a shock on my heart as I heard 
The shrill-edged shriek of a mother divide the shuddering night. 

v. 

Villany somewhere ! whose ? One says, we are villains all. 
Not he : his honest fame should at least by me be maintained : 
But that old man, now lord of the broad estate and the Hall, 
Dropt off gorged from a scheme that had left us flaccid and drain'd. 

VI. 

Why do they pi*ate of the blessings of Peace 1 we have made them a curse, 

Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its own ; 

And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it better or worse 

Than the heart of the citizen hissing in war on his own hearthstone * 



MA UD. 441 



But these are the days of advance, the works of the men of mind, 
When who but a fool would have faith in a tradesman's ware or his word ? 
Is it peace or war ? Civil war, as I think, and that of a kind 
The viler, as underhand, not openly bearing the sword. 



Sooner or later I too may passively take the print 

Of the golden age — why not 1 I have neither hope nor trust; 

May make my heart as a millstone, set my face as a flint, , 

Cheat and be cheated, and die : who knows ? we are ashes and dust. 



Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days gone by, 
When the poor are hovelPd and hustled together, each sex, like swine, 
When only the ledger lives, and when only not all men lie ; 
Peace in her vineyard — yes ! — but a company forges the wine. 



And the vitriol madness flushes up in the ruffian's head, 
Till the filthy by-lane, rings to the yell of the trampled wife, 
And chalk and alum and plaster are sold to the poor for bread, 
And the spirit of murder works in the very means of life, 



And Sleep must lie down arm'd, for the villanous centre-bits 
Grind on the wakeful ear in the hush of the moonless nights, 
While another is cheating the sick of a few last gasps, as he sits 
To pestle a poison'd poison behind his crimson lights. 



When a Mammonite mother kills her babe for a burial fee, 
And Timour-Mammon grins on a pile of children's bones, 
Is it peace or war 1 better, war ! loud war by land and by sea, 
War with a thousand battles, and shaking a hundred thrones. 



For I trust if an enemy's fleet came yonder round by the hill, 
And the rushing battle-bolt sang ffom the three-decker out of the foam, 
That the smooth-faced snubnosed rogue would leap from his counter and till, 
And strike, if he could, were it but with his cheating yardwand, home. 



What ! am I raging alone as my father raged in his mood ? 
Must / too creep to the hollow and dash myself down and die 
Rather than hold by the law that I made, nevermore to brood 
On a horror of shatter'd limbs and a wretched swindler's lie ? 



442 MAUD. 



Would there be sorrow for me ? there was love in the passionate shriek, 
Love for the silent thing that had made false haste to the grave — 
Wrapt in a cloak, as I saw him, and thought he would rise and speak 
And rave at the lie and the liar, ah God, as he used to rave. 



I am sick of the Hall and the hill, I am sick of the moor and the main. 
Why should I stay 1 can a sweeter chance ever come to me here ? 
0, having the nerves of motion as well as the nerves of pain, 
Were it not wise if I fled from the place and the pit and the fear ? 



Workmen up at the Hall ! — they are coming hack from abroad ; 
The dark old place will be gilt by the touch of a millionaire : 
I have heard, I know not whence, of the singular beauty of Maud ; 
Iplay'd with the girl when a child; she promised then to be fair. 



Maud with her venturous climbings and tumbles and childish escapes, 
Maud the delight of the village, the ringing joy of the Hall, 
Maud with her sweet purse-mouth when my father dangled the grapes, 
Maud the beloved of my mother, the moon-faced darling of all, — 

XIX. 

What is she now 1 My dreams are bad. She may bring me a curse. 
No, there is fatter game on the moor; she will let me alone. 
Thanks, for the fiend best knows whether woman or man be the worse. 
I will bury myself in myself, and the Devil may pipe to his own. 

II. 

Long have I sigh'd for a calm : God grant I may find it at last ! 

It will never be broken by Maud, she has neither savor nor salt, 

But a cold and clear-cut face, as I found when her carriage past, 

Perfectly beautiful : let it be granted her : where is the fault ? 

All that I saw (for her eyes were downcast, not to be seen) 

Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null, 

Dead perfection, no more ; nothing more, if it had not been 

For a chance of travel, a paleness, an hour's defect of the rose, 

Or an underlip, you may call it a little too ripe, too full, 

Or the least little delicate aquiline curve in a sensitive nose, 

From which I escaped heart-free, with the least little touch of spleen. 

III. 

Cold and clear-cut face, why come you so cruelly meek, 
Breaking a slumber in which all spleenful folly was drown'd, 
Pale with the golden beam of an eyelash dead on the cheek, 
Passionless, pale, cold face, star-sweet on a gloom profound ; 
Womanlike, taking revenge too deep for a transient wrong- 
Done but in thought to your beauty, and ever as pale as before 



MA UD. 443 



Growing and fading and growing upon me without a sound, 
Luminous, gemlike, ghostlike, deathlike, half the night long 
Growing and fading and growing, till I could bear it no more, 
But arose, and all by myself in my own dark garden ground, 
Listening now to the tide in its broad-flung shipwrecking roar, 
Now to the scream of a maddcn'd beach dragg'd down by the wave, 
Walk'd in a wintry wind by a ghastly glimmer, and found 
The shining daffodil dead, and Orion low in his grave. 

IV. 
i. 

A million emeralds break from the ruby-budded lime 
In the little grove where I sit — ah, wherefore cannot I be 
Like things of the season gay, like the bountiful season bland, 
When the far-off sail is blown by the breeze of a softer clime, 
Half-lost in the liquid azure bloom of a crescent of sea, 
The silent sapphire-spangled marriage ring of the land ? 



Below me, there, is the village, and looks how quiet and small ! 
And yet bubbles o'er like a city, with gossip, scandal, and spite ; 
And Jack on his ale-house bench has as many lies as a Czar ; 
And here on the landward side, by a red rock, glimmers the Hall : 
And up in the high Hall-garden I see her pass like a light ; 
But sorrow seize me if ever that light be my leading star ! 



When have I bow'd to her father, the wrinkled head of the race 1 
I met her to-day with her brother, but not to her brother I bow'd : 
I bow'd to his lady-sister as she rode by on the moor ; 
But the fire of a foolish pride flash'd over her beautiful face. 
O child, you wrong your beauty, believe it, in being so proud ; 
Your father has wealth well-gotten, and I am nameless and poor. 



I keep but a man and a maid, ever ready to slander and steal ; 

I know it, and smile a hard-set smile, like a stoic, or like 

A wiser epicurean, and let the world have its way : 

For nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher can heal ; 

The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow spear'd by the shrike, 

And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of plunder and prey. 



We are puppets, Man in his pride, and Beauty fair in her flower ; 
Do we move ourselves, or are moved by an unseen hand at a game 
That pushes us off from the board, and others ever succeed 1 
Ah yet, we cannot be kind to each other here for an hour; 
We whisper, and hint, and chuckle, and grin at a brother's shame ; 
However we brave it out, we men are a little breed. 



444 



MA UD. 



VI. 

A monstrous eft was of old the Lord and Master of Earth, 
For him did his high sun flame, and his river billowing ran, 
And he felt himself in his force to be Nature's crowning race. 
As nine months go to the shaping an infant ripe for his birth, 
So many a million of ages have gone to the making of man : 
He now is first, but is he the last % is he not too base ? 



The man of science himself is fonder of glory, and vain, 
An eye well-practised in nature, a spirit bounded and poor ; 
The passionate heart of the poet is whirl'd into folly and vice. 
I would not marvel at either, but keep a temperate brain ; 
For not to desire or admire, if a man could learn it, were more 
Than to walk all day like the sultan of old in a garden of spice. 



For the drift of the Maker is dark, an Isis hid by the veil. 

Who knows the ways of the world, how God will bring them about ? 

Our planet is one, the suns are many, the world is wide. 

Shall I weep if a Poland fall % shall I shriek if a Hungary fail ? 

Or an infant civilization be ruled with rod or with knout ? 

/ have not made the world, and He that made it will guide. 



Be mine a philosopher's life in the quiet woodland ways, 

Where if I cannot be gay let a passionless peace be my lot, 

Far-off from the clamor of liars belied in the hubbub of lies ; 

From the long-neck'd geese of the world that are ever hissing dispraise 

Because their natures are little, and, whether he heed it or not, 

Where each man walks with his head in a cloud of poisonous flies. 



And most of all would I flee from the cruel madness of love, 
The honey of poison-flowers and all the measureless ill. 
Ah Maud, you milk-white fawn, you are all unmeet for a wife. 
Your mother is mute in her grave as her image in marble above 
Your father is ever in London, you wander about at your will ; 
You have but fed on the roses and lain in the lilies of life. 



V. 
i. 

A voice by the cedar tree 

In the meadow under the Hall ! 

She is singing an air that is known to 

me, 
A passionate ballad gallant and gay, 
A martial song like a trumpet's call ! 
Singing alone in the morning of life, 



In the happy morning of life and of May, 
Singing of men that in battle array, 
Ready in heart and ready in hand, 
March with banner and bugle and fife 
To the death, for their native land. 

ii. 
Maud with her exquisite face, 
And wild voice pealing up to the 
sunny sky, 



MAUD. 



445 



And feet like sunny gems on an Eng- 
lish green, 

Maud in the light of her youth and 
her grace, 

Singing of Death, and of Honor that 
cannot die, 

Till I well could weep for a time so 
sordid and mean, 

And myself so languid and base. 

in. 
Silence, beautiful voice ! 
Be still, for you only trouble the 

mind 
With a joy in which I cannot rejoice, 
A glory I shall not find. 
Still ! I will hear you no more, 
For your sweetness hardly leaves me 

a choice 
But to move to the meadow and fall 

before 
Her feet on the meadow grass, and 

adore, 
Xot her, who is neither courtly nor 

kind, 
Not her, not her, but a voice. 

VI. 
i. 

Morning arises stormy and pale, 
No sun, but a wannish glare 
In fold upon fold of hueless cloud, 
And the budded peaks of the wood are 

bow'd 
Caught and cuffd by the gale: 
I had fancied it would be fair. 



Whom but Maud should I meet 
Last night, when the sunset burn'd 
On the blossom'd gable-ends 
At the head of the village street, 
Whom but Maud should I meet? 
And she touch'd my hand with a smile 

so sweet, 
She made me divine amends 
For a courtesy not return'd. 



And thus a delicate spark 
Of glowing and growing light 
Thro' the livelong hours of the dark 



Kept itself warm in the heart of my 

dreams, 
Ready to burst in a color'd flame ; 
Till at last when the morning came 
In a cloud, it faded, and seems 
But an ashen-gray delight. 



What if with her sunny hair, 

And smile as sunny as cold, 

She meant to weave me a snare 

Of some coquettish deceit, 

Cleopatra-like as of old 

To entangle me when we met, 

To have her lion roll in a silken net 

And fawn at a victor's feet. 



Ah, what shall I be at fifty 

Should Nature keep me alive, 

If I find the world so bitter 

When I am but twenty-five ? 

Yet, if she were not a cheat, 

If Maud were all that she seem'd, 

And her smile were all that I dream'd, 

Then the world were not so bitter 

But a smile could make it sweet. 



What if tho' her eye seem'd full 
Of a kind intent to me, 
What if that dandy-despot, he, 
That jewell'd mass of millinery, 
That oil'd and emTd Assyrian Bull 
Smelling of musk and of insolence, 
Her brother, from whom I keep aloof. 
Who wants the finer politic sense 
To mask, tho' but in his own behoof, 
With a glassy smile his brutal scorn — 
What if he had told her yestermorn 
How prettily for his own sweet sake 
A face of tenderness might be feign'd, 
And a moist mirage in desert eyes, 
That so, when the rotten hustings 

shake 
In another month to his brazen lies, 
A wretched vote may be gain'd. 



For a raven ever croaks, at my side, 
Keep watch and ward, keep watch 
and ward, 



446 



MAUD. 



Or thou wilt prove their tool. 
Yea, too, myself from myself I guard, 
For often a man's own angry pride 
Is cap and bells for a fool. 



Perhaps the smile and tender tone 
Came out of her pitying womanhood, 
For am I not, am I not, here alone 
So many a summer since she died, 
My mother, who was so gentle and 

good 1 ? 
Living alone in an empty house, 
Here half-hid in the gleaming wood, 
Where I hear the dead at midday 

moan, 
And the shrieking rush of the wainscot 

mouse, 
And my own sad name in corners 

cried, 
When the shiver of dancing leaves is 

thrown 
About its echoing chambers wide, 
Till a morbid hate and horror have 

grown 
Of a world in which I have hardly 

mixt, 
And a morbid eating lichen fixt 
On a heart half-turn'd to stone. 



O heart of stone, are you flesh, and 

caught 
By that you swore to withstand 1 
For what was it else within me wrought 
But, I fear, the new strong wine of 

love, 
That made my tongue so stammer and 

trip 
When I saw the treasured splendor, 

her hand, 
Come sliding out of her sacred glove, 
And the sunlight broke from her lip ? 



I have play'd with her when a child ; 
She remembers it now we meet. 
Ah well, well, well, I may be beguiled 
By some coquettish deceit. 
Yet, if she were not a cheat, 



If Maud were all that she seem'd, 
And her smile had all that I dream'd, 
Then the world were not so bitter 
But a smile could make it sweet. 

VII. 



Did I hear it half in a doze 
Long since, I know not where ? 

Did I dream it an hour ago, 
When asleep in this arm-chair 1 



Men were drinking together, 
Drinking and talking of me ; 

" Well, if it prove a girl, the boy 
Will have plenty : so let it be." 



Is it an echo of something 
Read with a boy's delight, 

Viziers nodding together 
In some Arabian night ? 



Strange, that I hear two men, 
Somewhere, talking of me ; 

" Well, if it prove a girl, my boy 
Will have plenty; so let it be." 

VIII. 

She came to the village church, 
And sat by a pillar alone ; 
An angel watching an urn 
Wept over her, carved in stone ; 
And once, but once, she lifted her 

eyes, 
And suddenly, sweetly, strangely 

blush'd 
To find they were met by my own ; 
And suddenly, sweetly, my heart beat 

stronger 
And thicker, until I heard no longer 
The snowy-banded, dilettante, 
Delicate-handed priest intone ; 
And thought, is it pride, and mused 

and sigh'd 
" No surely, now it cannot be pride." 



MAUD. 



447 



IX. 

I was walking a mile, 
More than a mile from the shore, 
The sun look'd out with a smile 
Betwixt the cloud and the moor, 
And riding at set of day- 
Over the dark moor land, 
Rapidly riding far away, 
She waved to me with her hand. 
There were two at her side, 
Something flash'd in the sun, 
Down by the hill I saw them ride, 
In a moment they were gone : 
Like a sudden spark 
Struck vainly in the night, 
Then returns the dark 
With no more hope of light. 

X. 



Sick, am I sick of a jealous dread ? 
Was not one of the two at her side 
This new-made lord, whose splendor 

plucks 
The slavish hat from the villager's 

head ? 
Whose old grandfather has lately died, 
Gone to a blacker pit, for whom 
Grimy nakedness dragging his trucks 
And laying his trams in a poison'd 

gloom 
Wrought, till he crept from a gutted 

mine 
Master of half a servile shire, 
And left his coal all turn'd into gold 
To a grandson, first of his noble line, 
Rich in the grace all women desire, 
Strong in the power that all men 

adore, 
And simper and set their voices lower, 
And soften as if to a girl, and hold 
Awe-stricken breaths at a work divine, 
Seeing his gewgaw castle shine, 
New as his title, built last year, 
There amid perky larches and pine, 
And over the sullen-purple moor 
(Look at it) pricking a cockney ear. 

ii. 
What, has he found my jewel out % 
For one of the two that rode at her 

side 



Bound for the Hall, I am sure was he : 
Bound for the Hall, and I think for a 

bride. 
Blithe would her brother's acceptance 

be. 
Maud could be gracious too, no doubt 
To a lord, a captain, a padded shape, 
A bought commission, a waxen face, 
A rabbit mouth that is ever agape — 
Bought ? what is it he cannot buy ? 
And therefore splenetic, personal, 

base, 
A wounded thing with a rancorous cry, 
At war with myself and a wretched 

race, 
Sick, sick to the heart of life, am I. 

in. 
Last week came one to the county 

town, 
To preach our poor little army down, 
And play the game of the despot kings, 
Tho' the state has done it and thrice 

as well : 
This broad-brimm'd hawker of holy 

things, 
Whose ear is cramm'd with his cotton, 

and rings 
Even in dreams to the chink of his 

pence, 
This huckster put down war ! can he 

tell 
Whether war be a cause or a conse- 
quence 1 
Put down the passions that make 

earth Hell ! 
Down with ambition, avarice, pride, 
Jealousy, down ! cutoff from the mind 
The bitter springs of anger and fear ; 
Down too, down at your own fireside, 
With the evil tongue and the evil ear, 
For each is at war with mankind. 

IV. 

I wish I could hear again 

The chivalrous battle-song 

That she warbled alone in her joy ! 

I might persuade myself then 

She would not do herself this great 

wrong, 
To take a wanton dissolute boy 
For a man and leader of men. 



448 



MAUD. 



Ah God, for a man with heart, head, 

hand, 
Like some of the simple great ones 

gone 
For ever and ever by, 
One still strong man in a blatant land, 
Whatever they call him, what care I, 
Aristocrat, democrat, autocrat — one 
Who can rule and dare not lie. 



And ah for a man to arise in me, 
That the man I am may cease to be ! 

XI. 

i. 

let the solid ground 
Not fail beneath my feet 

Before my life has found 

What some have found so sweet ; 
Then let come what come may, 
What matter if I go mad, 

1 shall have had my day. 



Let the sweet heavens endure, 
Not close and darken above me 

Before I am quite quite sure 
That there is one to love me ; 

Then let come what come may 

To a life that has been so sad, 

I shall have had my day. 

XII. 



Birds in the high Hall-garden 
When twilight was falling, 

Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud, 
They were crying and calling. 

ii. 
Where was Maud ? in our wood ; 

And I, who else, was with her, 
Gathering woodland lilies, 

Myriads blow together. 



Birds in our wood sang 
Ringing thro' the valleys, 

Maud is here, here, here 
In among the lilies. 



I kiss'd her slender hand, 
She took the kiss sedately; 

Maud is not seventeen, 
But she is tall and stately. 

v. 
I to cry out on pride 

Who have won her favor ! 
O Maud were sure of Heaven 

If lowliness could save her. 



I know the way she went 
Home with her maiden posy, 

For her feet have touch'd the meadows 
And left the daisies rosy. 



Birds in the high Hall-garden 
Were crying and calling to her, 

Where is Maud, Maud, Maud ? 
One is come to woo her. 

VIII. 

Look, a horse at the door, 

And little King Charley snarling, 

Go back, my lord, across the moor, 
You are not her darling. 

XIII. 
i. 

Scorn'd, to be scorn'd by one that I 

scorn, 
Is that a matter to make me fret ? 
That a calamity hard to be borne ? 
Well, he may live to hate me yet. 
Fool that I am to be vext with his pride ! 
I past him, I was crossing his lands ; 
He stood on the path a little aside ; 
His face, as I grant, in spite of spite, 
Has a broad-blown comeliness, red 

and white, 
And six feet two, as I think, he stands ; 
But his essences turn'd the live air sick, 
And barbarous opulence jewel-thick 
Sunn'd itself on his breast and his 

hands. 



Who shall call me ungentle, unfair, 
I long'd so heartily then and there 
To give him the grasp of fellowship ; 



MA UD. 



449 



But while I past he was humming an 

air, 
Stopt, and then with a riding whip 
Leisurely tapping a glossy hoot, 
And curving a contumelious lip, 
Gorgonized me from head to foot 
With a stony British stare. 



Why sits he here in his father's chair ? 
That old man never comes to his place : 
Shall I believe him ashamed to be 

seen ? 
For only once, in the village street, 
Last year, I caught a glimpse of his 

face, 
A gray old wolf and a lean. 
Scarcely, now, would I call him a 

cheat ; 
For then, perhaps, as a child of deceit, 
She might by a true descent be untrue ; 
And Maud is as true as Maud is sweet : 
Tho' I fancy her sweetness only due 
To the sweeter blood by the other side ; 
Her mother has been a thing complete, 
However she came to be so allied. 
And fair without, faithful within, 
Maud to him is nothing akin . 
Some peculiar mystic grace 
Made her only the child of her mother, 
And heap'd the whole inherited sin 
On that huge scapegoat of the race, 
All, all upon the brother. 



Peace, angry spirit, and let him be I 
Has not his sister smiled on me % 

XIV. 



Maud has a garden of roses 
And lilies fair on a lawn ; 
There she walks in her state 
And tends upon bed and bower, 
And thither I climb'd at dawn 
And stood by her garden-gate ; 
A lion ramps at the top, 
He is claspt by a passion-flower. 

ii. 
Maud's own little oak-room 
(Which Maud, like a precious stone 



Set in the heart of the carven gloom, 
Lights with herself, when alone 
She sits by her music and books 
And her brother lingers late 
With a roystering company) looks 
Upon Maud's own garden-gate : 
And I thought as I stood, if a hand, 

as white 
As ocean-foam in the moon, were laid 
On the hasp of the window, and my 

Delight 
Had a sudden desire, like a glorious 

ghost, to glide, 
Like a beam of the seventh Heaven, 

down to my side, ^ 

There were but a step to be made. 



The fancy flatter'd my mind, 

And again seem'd overbold ; 

Now I thought that she cared for me, 

Now I thought she was kind 

Only because she was cold. 



I heard no sound where I stood 
But the rivulet on from the lawn 
Running down to my own dark wood ; 
Or the voice of the long sea-wave as 

it swell'd 
Now and then in the dim-gray dawn , 
But I look'd, and round, all round the 

house I beheld 
The death-white curtain drawn , 
Felt a horror over me creep, 
Prickle my skin and catch my breath , 
Knew that the death-white curtain 

meant but sleep, 
Yet I shudder'd and thought like a 

fool of the sleep of death. 

XV. 

So dark a mind within me dwells, 

And I make myself such evil cheer, 
That if / be dear to some one else, 
Then some one else may have much 
to fear ; 
But if / be dear to some one else, 
Then I should be to myself more 
dear. 



450 



MAUD. 



Shall I not take care of all that I think, 
Yea ev'n of wretched meat and drink, 
If I be dear, 
If I be dear to some one else. 



XVI. 
i. 

This lump of earth has left his estate 
The lighter by the loss of his weight ; 
And so that he find what he went to 



And fulsome Pleasure clog him, and 

drown 
«His heart in the gross mud-honey of 

town, 
He may stay for a year who has gone 

for a week : 
But this is the day when I must speak, 
And I see my Oread coming down, 
O this is the day ! 

beautiful creature, what am I 
That I dare to look her way ; 
Think I may hold dominion sweet, 
Lord of the pulse that is lord of her 

breast, 
And dream of her beauty with tender 

dread, 
From the delicate Arab arch of her 

feet 
To the grace that, bright and light as 

the crest 
Of a peacock, sits on her shining head, 
And she knows it not : O, if she knew it, 
To know her beauty might half undo it. 

1 know it the one bright thing to save 
My yet young life in the wilds of Time, 
Perhaps from madness, perhaps from 

crime, 
Perhaps from a selfish grave. 



What, if she be fasten'd to this fool 

lord, 
Dare I bid her abide by her word ? 
Should I love her so well if she 
Had given her word to a thing so low % 
Shall I love her as well if she 
Can break her word were it even for 

me? 
I trust that it is not so. 



Catch not my breath, O clamorous 

heart, 
Let not my tongue be a thrall to my 

eye, 
For I must tell her before we part, 
I must tell her, or die. 

XVII. 

Go not, happy day, 

From the shining fields, 
Go not, happy day, 

Till the maiden yields. 
Rosy is the West, 

Rosy is the South, 
Roses are her cheeks, 

And a rose her mouth 
When the happy Yes 

Falters from her lips, 
Pass and blush the news 

Over glowing ships ; 
Over blowing seas, 

Over seas at rest, 
Pass the happy news, 

Blush it thro' the West; 
Till the red man dance 

By his red cedar-tree, 
And the red man's babe 

Leap, beyond the sea. 
Blush from West to East, 

Blush from East to West, 
Till the West is East, 

Blush it thro' the West. 
Rosy is the West, 

Rosy is the South, 
Roses are her cheeks, 

And a rose her mouth. 

XVIII. 



I have led her home, my love, my 
only friend. 

There is none like her, none. 

And never yet so warmly ran my 
blood 

And sweetly, on and on 

Calming itself to the long-wish'd-for 
end, 

Full to the banks, close on the prom- 
ised good. 



MAUD. 



451 



None like her, none. 

Just now the dry-tongued laurels' 

pattering talk 
Seem'd her light foot along the 

garden walk, 
And shook my heart to think she 

comes once more ; 
But even then I heard her close the 

door, 
The gates of Heaven are closed, and 

she is gone. 



There is none like her, none. 

Nor will be when our summers have 

deceased. 
O, art thou sighing for Lebanon 
In the long breeze that streams to thy 

delicious East, 
Sighing for Lebanon, 
Dark cedar, tho' thy limbs have here 

increased, 
Upon a pastoral slope as fair, 
And looking to the South, and fed 
With honey'd rain and delicate air, 
And haunted by the starry head 
Of her whose gentle will has changed 

my fate, 
And made my life a perfumed altar- 
flame ; 
And over whom thy darkness must 

have spread 
With such delight as theirs of old, 

thy great 
Forefathers of the thornless garden, 

there 
Shadowing the snow-limb'd Eve from 

whom she came. 



Here will I lie, while these long 

branches sway, 
And you fair stars that crown a 

happy day 
Go in and out as if at merry play, 
Who am no more so all forlorn, 
As when it seem'd far better to be 

born 
To labor and the mattock-harden'd 

hand. 



Than nursed at ease and brought to 

understand 
A sad astrology, the boundless plan 
That makes you tyrants in your iron 

skies, 
Innumerable, pitiless, passionless eyes, 
Cold fires, yet with power to burn and 

brand 
His nothingness into man. 



But now shine on, and what care I, 

Who in this stormy gulf have found a 
pearl 

The countercharm of space and hol- 
low sky, 

And do accept my madness, and would 
die 

To save from some slight shame one 
simple girl. 



Would die ; for sullen-seeming Death 

may give 
More life to Love than is or ever was 
In our low world, where yet 'tis sweet 

to live. 
Let no one ask me how it came to 

pass ; 
It seems that I am happy, that to me 
A livelier emerald twinkles in the 

grass, 
A purer sapphire melts into the sea. 



Not die ; but live a life of truest 

breath, 
And teach true life to fight with 

mortal wrongs. 
O, why should Love, like men in 

drinking-songs, 
Spice his fair banquet with the dust 

of death I 
Make answer, Maud my bliss, 
Maud made my Maud by that long 

loving kiss, 
Life of my life, wilt thou not answer 

this? 
" The dusky strand of Death inwoven 

here 
With dear Love's tie, makes Love 

himself more dear." 



452 



MAUD. 



Is that enchanted moan only the 

swell 
Of the long waves that roll in yonder 

bay? 
And hark the clock within, the silver 

knell 
Of twelve sweet hours that past in 

bridal white, 
And died to live, long as my pulses 

play; 
But now by this my love has closed 

her sight 
And given false death her hand, and 

stol'n away 
To dreamful wastes where footless 

fancies dwell 
Among the fragments of the golden 

day. 
May nothing there her maiden grace 

affright ! 
Dear heart, I feel with thee the 

drowsy spell. 
My bride to be, my evermore delight, 
My own heart's heart, my ownest own, 

farewell ; 
It is but for a little space I go : 
And ye meanwhile far over moor and 

fell 
Beat to the noiseless music of the 

night ! 
Has our whole earth gone nearer to 

the glow 
Of your soft splendors that you look 

so bright ^ 
/ have climb'd nearer out of lonely 

Hell. 
Beat, happy stars, timing with things 

below, 
Beat with my heart more blest than 

heart can tell, 
Blest, but for some dark undercurrent 

woe 
That seems to draw — but it shall not 

be so : 
Let all be well, be well. 

XIX. 
i. 

Her brother is coming back to-night, 
Breaking up my dream of delight. 



ii. 

My dream 1 do I dream of bliss 1 
I have walk'd awake with Truth. 
when did a morning shine 
So rich in atonement as this 
For my dark-dawning youth, 
Darken'd watching a mother decline 
And that dead man at her heart and 

mine: 
For who was left to watch her but I ? 
Yet so did I let my freshness die. 



I trust that I did not talk 

To gentle Maud in our walk 

(For often in lonely wanderings 

I have cursed him even to lifeless 

thing.?) 
But I trust that 1 did not talk, 
Not touch on her father's sin : 
I am sure I did but speak 
Of my mother's faded cheek 
When it slowly grew so thin, 
That I felt she was slowly dying 
Vext with lawyers and harass'd with 

debt: 
For how often I caught her with eyes 

all wet, 
Shaking her head at her son and sigh- 
ing 
A world of trouble within ! 



And Maud too, Maud was moved 
To speak of the mother she loved 
As one scarce less forlorn, 
Dying abroad and it seems apart 
From him who had ceased to share 

her heart, 
And ever mourning over the feud, 
The household Fury sprinkled with 

blood 
By which our houses are torn : 
How strange was what she said, 
When only Maud and the brother 
Hung over her dying bed — 
That Maud's dark father and mine 
Had bound us one to the other, 
Betrothed us over their wine, 
On the day when Maud was born ; 
Seal'd her mine from her first sweet 

breath. 



MAUD. 



453 



Mine, mine by a right, from birth till 

death. 
Mine, mine — our fathers have sworn. 



But the true blood spilt had in it a 
heat 

To dissolve the precious seal on a 
bond, 

That, if left uncancell'd, had been so 
sweet : 

And none of us thought of a some- 
thing beyond, 

A desire that awoke in the heart of 
the child, 

As it were a duty done to the tomb, 

To be friends for her sake, to be re- 
conciled ; 

And I was cursing them and my 
doom, 

And letting a dangerous thought run 
wild 

While often abroad in the fragrant 
gloom 

Of foreign churches — I see her 
there, 

Bright English lily, breathing a 
prayer 

To be friends, to be reconciled ! 



But then what a flint is he ! 
Abroad, at Florence, at Rome, 
I find whenever she touch'd on me 
This brother had laugh'd her down, 
And at last, when each came home, 
He had darken'd into a frown, 
Chid her, and forbid her to speak 
To me, her friend of the years be- 
fore ; 
And this was what had redden'd her 

cheek 
When I bow'd to her on the moor. 



Yet Maud, altho' not blind 
To the faults of his heart and mind, 
I see she cannot but love him, 
And says he is rough but kind, 
And wishes me to approve him, 
And tells me, when she lay 



Sick once, with a fear of worse, 
Then he left his wine and horses and 

play, 
Sat with her, read to her, night and 

day, 
And tended her like a nurse. 



Kind ? but the deathbed desire 
Spurn'd by this heir of the liar — 
Rough but kind % yet I know 
He has plotted against me in this, 
That he plots against me still. 
Kind to Maud % that were not amiss. 
Well, rough but kind ; why let it be 

so : 
For shall not Maud have her will ? 



For, Maud, so tender and true, 

As long as my life endures 

I feel I shall owe you a debt, 

That I never can hope to pay ; 

And if ever I should forget 

That I owe this debt to you 

And for your sweet sake to yours ; 

O then, what then shall I say ? — 

If ever I should forget, 

May God make me more wretched 

Than ever I have been yet ! 



So now I have sworn to bury 

All this dead body of hate, 

I feel so free and so clear 

By the loss of that dead weight, 

That I should grow light-headed, I 
fear, 

Fantastically merry ; 

But that her brother comes, like a 
blight 

On my fresh hope, to the Hall to- 
night. 

XX. 

i. 

Strange, that I felt so gay, 
Strange, that / tried to-day 
To beguile her melancholy ; 
The Sultan, as we name him,— 



454 



MAUD. 



She did not wish to blame him — 
But he vext her and perplext her 
With his worldly talk and folly : 
Was it gentle to reprove her 
For stealing out of view 
From a little lazy lover 
Who but claims her as his due 1 
Or for chilling his caresses 
By the coldness of her manners, 
Nay, the plainness of her dresses % 
Now I know her but in two, 
Nor can pronounce upon it 
If one should ask me whether 
The habit, hat, and feather, 
Or the frock and gipsy bonnet 
Be the neater and completer ; 
For nothing can be sweeter 
Than maiden Maud in either. 



But to-morrow, if we live, 
Our ponderous squire will give 
A grand political dinner 
To half the squirelings near ; 
And Maud will wear her jewels, 
And the bird of prey will hover, 
And the titmouse hope to win her 
With his chirrup at her ear. 



A grand political dinner 

To the men of many acres, 

A gathering of the Tory, 

A dinner and then a dance 

For the maids and marriage-makers. 

And every eye but mine will glance 

At Maud in all her glory. 



For I am not invited, 

But, with the Sultan's pardon, 

I am all as well delighted, 

For I know her own rose-garden, 

And mean to linger in it 

Till the dancing will be over ; 

And then, oh then, come out to me 

For a minute, but for a minute, 

Come out to your own true lover, 

That your true lover may see 

Your glory also, and render 

All homage to his own darling, 

Queen Maud in all her splendor 



XXI. 

Rivulet crossing my ground, 

And bringing me down from the 

Hall 
This garden-rose that I found, 
Forgetful of Maud and me, 
And lost in trouble and moving round 
Here at the head of a tinkling fall, 
And trying to pass to the sea ; 
Rivulet, born at the Hall, 
My Maud has sent it by thee 
(If I read her sweet will right) 
On a blushing mission to me, 
Saying in odor and color, " Ah, be 
Among the roses to-night." 

XXII. 
i. 

Come into the garden, Maud, 

For the black bat, night, has flown . 

Come into the garden, Maud, 
I am here at the gate alone ; 

And the woodbine spices are wafted 
abroad, 
And the musk of the rose is blown. 



For a breeze of morning moves, 

And the planet of Love is on high, 
Beginning to faint in the light that 
she loves 
On a bed of daffodil sky, 
To faint in the light of the sun she 
loves, 
To faint in his light, and to die. 



All night have the roses heard 

The flute, violin, bassoon ; 
All night has the casement jessamine 
stirr'd 
To the dancers dancing in tune ; 
Till a silence fell with the waking 
bird, 
And a hush with the setting moon. 



I said to the lily, " There is but one 

With whom she has heart to be gay. 
When will the dancers leave her 
alone ? 



MA UD. 



455 



She is weary of dance and play." 
Now half to the setting moon are gone, 

And half to the rising day ; 
Low on the sand and loud on the 
stone 

The last wheel echoes away. 



I said to the rose, "The brief night 
goes 
In babble and revel and wine. 
O young lord-lover, what sighs are 
those, 
For one that will never be thine 1 
But mine, but mine," so I sware to 

the rose, 
" For ever and ever, mine." 

VI. 

And the soul of the rose went into 
my blood, 
As the music clash'd in the hall ; 
And long by the garden lake I stood, 

For I heard your rivulet fall 
From the lake to the meadow and on 
to the wood, 
Our wood, that is dearer than all ; 

VII. 

From the meadow your walks have 
left so sweet 
That whenever a March-wind sighs 
He sets the jewel-print of your feet 

In violets blue as your eyes, 
To the woody hollows in which we 

meet 
And the valleys of Paradise. 



The slender acacia would not shake 

One long milk-bloom on the tree ; 
The white lake-blossom fell into the 
lake 

As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; 
But the rose was awake all night for 
your sake, 

Knowing your promise to me ; 
The lilies and roses were all awake, 

They sigh'd for the dawn and thee. 



Queen rose of the rosebud garden of 
girls, 
Come hither, the dances are done, 



In gloss of satin and glimmer of 
pearls, 
Queen lily and rose in one ; 
Shine out, little head, sunning over 
with curls, 
To the flowers, and be their sun. 



There has fallen a splendid tear 

From the passion-flower at the gate 
She is coming, my dove, my dear ; 

She is coming, my life, my fate ; 
The red rose cries, " She is near, she 
is near ; " 

And the white rose weeps, " She b 
late ; " 
The larkspur listens, " I hear, I hear ; " 

And the lily whispers, " I wait." 



She is coming, my own, my sweet ; 

Were it ever so airy a tread, 
My heart would hear her and beat, 

Were it earth in an earthy bed ; 
My dust would hear her and beat, 

Had I lain for a century dead ; 
Would start and tremble under her 
feet, 

And blossom in purple and red. 

PART II. 
I. 

i. 
"The fault was mine, the fault wa6 

mine " — 
Why am I sitting here so stunn'd and 

still, 
Plucking the harmless wild-flower on 

the hill ? — 
It is this guilty hand ! — 
And there rises ever a passionate cry 
From underneath in the darkening 

land — 
What is it, that has been done 1 
dawn of Eden bright over earth 

and sky, 
The fires of Hell brake out of thy 

rising sun, 
The fires of Hell and of Hate ; 
For she, sweet soul, had hardly spoken 

a word, 



456 



MAUD- 



When her brother ran in his rage to 

the gate, 
He came with the babe-faced lord ; 
Heap'd on her terms of disgrace, 
And while she wept, and I strove to 

be cool, 
He fiercely gave me the lie, 
Till I with as fierce an anger spoke, 
And he struck me, madman, over the 

face, 
Struck me before the languid fool, 
Who was gaping and grinning by : 
Struck for himself an evil stroke; 
Wrought for his house an irredeem- 
able woe ; 
For front to front in an hour we stood, 
And a million horrible bellowing 

echoes broke 
From the red-ribb'd hollow behind 

the wood, 
And thunder'd up into Heaven the 

Christless code, 
That must have life for a blow. 
Ever and ever afresh they seem'd to 

grow. 
Was it he lay there with a fading eye ? 
" The fault was mine," he whisper'd, 

"fly!" 
Then glided out of the joyous wood 
The ghastly Wraith of one that I 

know; 
And there rang on a sudden a pas- 
sionate cry, 
A cry for a brother's blood : 
It will ring in my heart and my ears, 
till I die, till I die. 



Is it gone % my pulses beat — 

What was it 1 a lying trick of the 

brain % 
Yet I thought I saw her stand, 
A shadow there at my feet, 
High over the shadowy land. 
It is gone ; and the heavens fall in a 

gentle rain, 
When they should burst and drown 

with deluging storms 
The feeble vassals of wine and anger 

and lust, 
The little hearts that know not how 

to forgive : 



Arise, my God, and strike, for we hold 

Thee just, 
Strike dead the whole weak race of 

venomous worms, 
That sting each other here in the dust; 
We are not worthy to live. 

II. 

i. 

See what a lovely shell, 
Small and pure as a pearl, 
Lying close to my foot, 
Frail, but a work divine, 
Made so fairily well 
With delicate spire and whorl, 
How exquisitely minute, 
A miracle of design ! 



What is it ? a learned man 
Could give it a clumsy name. 
Let him name it who can, 
The beauty would be the same. 



The tiny cell is forlorn, 
Void of the little living will 
That made it stir on the shore. 
Did he stand at the diamond door 
Of his house in a rainbow frill 1 
Did he push, when he was uncurl'd, 
A golden foot or a fairy horn 
Thro' his dim water-world ? 



Slight, to be crush'd with a tap 
Of my finger-nail on the sand, 
Small, but a work divine, 
Frail, but of force to withstand, 
Year upon year, the shock 
Of cataract seas that snap 
The three decker's oaken spine 
Athwart the ledges of rock, 
Here on the Breton strand! 



Breton, not Briton ; here 

Like a shipwreck'd man on a coast 

Of ancient fable and fear — 



MAUD. 



457 



Plagued with a flitting to and fro, 

A disease, a hard mechanic ghost 

That never came from on high 

Nor ever arose from below, 

But only moves with the moving eye, 

Flying along the land and the main — 

Why should it look like Maud ? 

Am I to be overawed 

By what I cannot but know 

Is a juggle born of the brain 1 



Back from the Breton coast, 

Sick of a nameless fear, 

Back to the dark sea-line 

Looking, thinking of all I have lost 

An old song vexes my ear; 

But that of Lamech is mine. 



For years, a measureless ill, 
For years, for ever, to part — 
But she, she would love me still; 
And as long, God, as she 
Have a grain of love for me, 
So long, no doubt, no doubt, 
Shall I nurse in my dark heart, 
However weary, a spark of will 
Not to be trampled out. 



Strange, that the mind, when fraught 
With a passion so intense 
One would think that it well 
Might drown all life in the eye, — 
That it should, by being so over- 
wrought, 
Suddenly strike on a sharper sense 
For a shell, or a flower, little things 
Which else would have been past by! 
And now I remember, I, 
When he lay dying there, 
I noticed one of his many rings 
(For he had many, poor worm) and 

thought 
It is his mother's hair. 



Who knows if he be dead? 
Whether 1 need have fled 9 
Am I guilty of blood ? 



However this may be, 

Comfort her, comfort her, all things 

good, 
While I am over the sea ! 
Let me and my passionate love go by, 
But speak to her all things holy and 

high, 
Whatever happen to me ! 
Me and my harmful love go by ; 
But come to her waking, find her 

asleep, 
Powers of the height, Powers of the 

deep, 
And comfort her tho' I die. 

III. 

Courage, poor heart of stone ! 

I will not ask thee why 

Thou canst not understand 

That thou art left for ever alone ; 

Courage, poor stupid heart of stone. — 

Or if I ask thee why, 

Care not thou to reply : 

She is but dead, and the time is at 

hand 
When thou shalt more than die. 

rv. 

i. 

O that 'twere possible 

After long grief and pain 

To find the arms of my true love 

Round me once again ! 



When I was wont to meet her 
In the silent woody places 
By the home that gave me birth, 
We stood tranced in long embraces 
Mixt with kisses sweeter sweeter 
Than anything on earth. 



A shadow flits before me, 

Not thou, but like to thee : 

Ah Christ, that it were possible 

For one short hour to see 

The souls we loved, that they might 

tell us 
What and where they be. 



458 



MAUD. 



It leads me forth at evening, 

It lightly winds and steals 

In a cold white robe before me, 

When all my spirit reels 

At the shouts, the leagues of lights, 

And the roaring of the wheels. 



Half the night I waste in sighs, 
Half in dreams I sorrow after 
The delight of early skies ; 
In a wakeful doze I sorrow 
For the hand, the lips, the eyes, 
For the meeting of the morrow, 
The delight of happy laughter, 
The delight of low replies. 



'Tis a morning pure and sweet, 
And a dewy splendor falls 
On the little flower that clings 
To the turrets and the walls ; 
'Tis a morning pure and sweet, 
And the light and shadow fleet; 
She is walking in the meadow, 
And the woodland echo rings ; 
In a moment we shall meet ; 
She is singing in the meadow 
And the rivulet at her feet 
Ripples on in light and shadow 
To the ballad that she sings. 



Do I hear her sing as of old, 
My bird with the shining head, 
My own dove with the tender eye 1 
But there rings on a sudden a pas- 
sionate cry, 
There is some one dying or dead, 
And a sullen thunder is roll'd ; 
For a tumult shakes the city, 
And I wake, my dream is fled ; 
In the shuddering dawn, behold, 
Without knowledge, without pity, 
By the curtains of my bed 
That abiding phantom cold. 



Get thee hence, nor come again, 



Mix not memory with doubt, 
Pass, thou deathlike type of pain, 
Pass and cease to move about ! 
'Tis the blot upon the brain 
That will show itself without. 



Then I rise, the eavedrops fall, 
And the yellow vapors choke 
The great city sounding wide ; 
The day comes, a dull red ball 
Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke 
On the misty river-tide. 



Thro' the hubbub of the market 
I steal, a wasted frame, 
It crosses here, it crosses there, 
Thro' all that crowd confused and 

loud, 
The shadow still the same ; 
And on my heavy eyelids 
My anguish hangs like shame. 



Alas for her that met me, 

That heard me softly call, 

Came glimmering thro' the laurels 

At the quiet evenf all, 

In the garden by the turrets 

Of the old manorial hall. 



Would the happy spirit descend, 
From the realms of light and song, 
In the chamber or the street, 
As she looks among the blest, 
Should I fear to greet my friend 
Or to say " Forgive the wrong," 
Or to ask her, " Take me, sweet, 
To the regions of thy rest " ? 



But the broad light glares and beate, 
And the shadow flits and fleets 
And will not let me be ; 
And I loathe the squares and streets. 
And the faces that one meets, 
Hearts with no love for me : 
Always I long to creep 



MA UD. 



459 



Into some still cavern deep, 
There to weep, and weep, and weep 
My whole soul out to thee. 



V. 



Dead, long dead, 

Long dead ! 

And my heart is a handful of dust, 

And the wheels go over my head, 

And my bones are shaken with pain, 

For into a shallow grave they are 

thrust, 
Only a yard beneath the street, 
And the hoofs of the horses beat, 

beat, 
The hoofs of the horses beat, 
Beat into my scalp and my brain, 
With never an end to the stream of 

passing feet, 
Driving, hurrying, marrying, burying, 
Clamor and rumble, and ringing and 

clatter, 
And here beneath it is all as bad, 
For I thought the dead had peace, but 

it is not so ; 
To have no peace in the grave, is that 

not sad ? 
But up and down and to and fro, 
Ever about me the dead men go ; 
And then to hear a dead man chatter 
Is enough to drive one mad. 



Wretchedest age, since Time began, 

They cannot even bury a man ; 

And tho' we paid our tithes in the 

days that are gone, 
Not a bell was rung, not a prayer was 

read ; 
It is that which makes us loud in the 

world of the dead ; 
There is none that does his work, not 

one ; 
A touch of their office might have 

sufficed, 
Hut the churchmen fain would kill 

their church, 
As the churches have kill'd their 

Christ. 



See, there is one of us sobbing, 

No limit to his distress ; 

And another, a lord of all things, 
praying 

To his own great self, as I guess ; 

And another, a statesman there, be- 
traying 

His party-secret, fool, to the press ; 

And yonder a vile physician, blabbing 

The case of his patient — all for 
what? 

To tickle the maggot born in an 
empty head, 

And wheedle a world that loves him 
not, 

For it is but a world of the dead. 



Nothing but idiot gabble ! 

For the prophecy given of old 

And then not understood, 

Has come to pass as foretold ; 

Not let any man think for the public 

good, 
But babble, merely for babble. 
For I never whisper'd a private affair 
Within the hearing of cat or mouse, 
No, not to myself in the closet alone, 
But I heard it shouted at once from 

the top of the house ; 
Everything came to be known. 
Who told him we were there? 



Not that gray old wolf, for he came 

not back 
From the wilderness, full of wolves, 

where he used to lie ; 
He has gather'd the bones for his 

o'ergrown whelp to crack ; 
Crack them now for yourself, and 

howl, and die. 



Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip, 
And curse me the British vermin, the 

rat; 
I know not whether he came in the 

Hanover ship, 



460 



MAUD. 



But I know that he lies and listens 

mute 
In an ancient mansion's crannies and 

holes : 
Arsenic, arsenic, sure, would do it, 
Except that now we poison our babes, 

poor souls ! 
It is all used up for that. 

VII. 

Tell him now : she is standing here at 

my head ; 
Not beautiful now, not even kind ; 
He may take her now ; for she never 

speaks her mind, 
But is ever the one thing silent here. 
She is not of us, as I divine ; 
She comes from another stiller world 

of the dead, 
Stiller, not fairer than mine. 



But I know where a garden grows, 

Fairer than aught in the world be- 
side, 

All made up of the lily and rose 

That blow by night, when the season 
is good, 

To the sound of dancing music and 
flutes : 

It is only flowers, they had no fruits, 

And I almost fear they are not roses, 
but blood ; 

For the keeper was one, so full of 
pride, 

He linkt a dead man there to a spec- 
tral bride ; 

For he, if he had not been a Sultan of 
brutes, 

Would he have that hole in his side 1 



But what will the old man say ? 

He laid a cruel snare in a pit 

To catch a friend of mine one stormy 

day; 
Yet now I could even weep to think 

of it; 
For what will the old man say 
When he comes to the second corpse 

in the pit ? 



Friend, to be struck by the public 

foe, 
Then to strike him and lay him low, 
That were a public merit, far, 
Whatever the Quaker holds, from 

sin ; 
But the red life spilt for a private 

blow — 
I swear to you, lawful and lawless 

war 
Are scarcely even akin. 



me, why have they not buried me 

deep enough ? 
Is it kind to have made me a grave so 

rough, 
Me, that was never a quiet sleeper 1 
Maybe still I am but half-dead ; 
Then I cannot be wholly dumb ; 

1 will cry to the steps above my head 
And somebody, surely, some kind 

heart will come 
To bury me, bury me 
Deeper, ever so little deeper. 



PART III. 
VI. 



My life has crept so long on a broken wing 
Thro' cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear, 
That I come to be grateful at last for a little thing: 
My mood is changed, for it fell at a time of year 
When the face of night is fair on the dewy downs, 



MA UD. 461 



And the shining daffodil dies, and the Charioteer 

And starry Gemini hang like glorious crowns 

Over Orion's grave low down in the west, 

That like a silent lightning under the stars 

She seem'd to divide in a dream from a band of the blest, 

And spoke of a hope for the world in the coming wars — 

" And in that hope, dear soul, let trouble have rest, 

Knowing I tarry for thee," and pointed to Mars 

As \ie glow'd like a ruddy shield on the Lion's breast. 



And it was but a dream, yet it yielded a dear delight 

To have look'd, tho' but in a dream, upon eyes so fair, 

That had been in a weary world my one thing bright; 

And it was but a dream, yet it lighten'd my despair 

When I thought that a war would arise in defence of the right, 

That an iron tyranny now should bend or cease, 

The glory of manhood stand on his ancient height, 

Nor Britain's one sole God be the millionaire : 

No more shall commerce be all in all, and Peace 

Pipe on her pastoral hillock a languid note, 

And watch her harvest ripen, her herd increase, 

Nor the cannon-bullet rust on a slothful shore, 

And the cobweb woven across the cannon's throat 

Shall shake its threaded tears in the wind no more. 



And as months ran on and rumor of battle grew, 

" It is time, it is time, O passionate heart," said I 

(For I cleaved to a cause that I felt to be pure and true), 

" It is time, O passionate heart and morbid eye, 

That old hysterical mock-disease should die." 

And I stood on a giant deck and mix'd my breath 

With a loyal people shouting a battle cry, 

Till I saw the dreary phantom arise and fly 

Far into the North, and battle, and seas of death. 



Let it go or stay, so I wake to the higher aims 

Of a land that has lost for a little her lust of gold, 

And love of a peace that was full of wrongs and shames, 

Horrible, hateful, monstrous, not to be told ; 

And hail once more to the banner of battle unroll'd! 

Tho' many a light shall darken, and many shall weep 

For those that are crush'd in the clash of jarring claims, 

Yet God's just wrath shall be wreak'd on a giant liar; 

And many a darkness into the light shall leap, 

And shine in the sudden making of splendid names, 

And noble thought be freer under the sun, 

And the heart of a people beat with one desire ; 



462 MA UD. 



For the peace, that I deem'd no peace, is over and done, 
And now by the side of the Black and the Baltic deep, 
And deathful-grinning mouths of the fortress, flames 
The blood-red blossom of war with a heart of fire. 



Let it flame or fade, and the war roll down like a wind, 
We have proved we have hearts in a cause, we are noble still, 
And myself have awaked, as it seems, to the better mind ; 
It is better to fight for the good than to rail at the ill ; 
I have felt with my native land, I am one with my kind, 
I embrace the purpose of God, and the doom assign'd. 



ENOCH ARDETsT 

AND OTHER POEMS. 



>X& 



ENOCH ARDEN. 

Long lines of cliff breaking have left 
a chasm ; 

And in the chasm are foam and yel- 
low sands; 

Beyond, red roofs about a narrow 
wharf 

In cluster ; then a moulder'd church ; 
and higher 

A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd 
mill; 

And high in heaven behind it a gray 
down 

With Danish barrows; and a hazel- 
wood, 

By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes 

Green in a cuplike hollow of the 
down. 



Here on this beach a hundred years 
ago, 
Three children of three houses, Annie 

Lee, 

The prettiest little damsel in the port, 
And Philip Ray the miller's only son, 
And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad 
Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, 

play'd 
Among the waste and lumber of the 

shore, 
Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fish- 
ing-nets, 
Anchors of rusty-fluke, and boats up- 
drawn ; 



And built their castles of dissolving 
sand 

To watch them overflow'd, or follow- 
ing up 

And flying the white breaker, daily 
left 

The little footprint daily wash'd away. 

A narrow cave ran in beneath the 

cliff: 
In this the children play'd at keeping 

house. 
Enoch was host one day, Philip the 

next, 
While Annie still was mistress ; but 

at times 
Enoch would hold possession for a 

week: 
" This is my house and this my little 

wife." 
" Mine too " said Philip " turn and 

turn about " : 
When, if they quarrell'd, Enoch 

stronger-made 
Was master: then would Philip, his 

blue eyes 
All flooded with the helpless wrath of 

tears, 
Shriek out " I hate you, Enoch," and 

at this 
The little wife would weep for com- 
pany, 
And pray them not to quarrel for he 

sake, 
And say she would be little wife to 

both. 



464 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



But when the dawn of rosy child- 
hood past, 

And the new warmth of life's ascend- 
ing sun 

Was felt by either, either fixt his 
heart 

On that one girl; and Enoch spoke 
his love, 

But Philip loved in silence ; and the 
girl 

Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to 
him ; 

But she loved Enoch ; tho' she knew 
it not, 

And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch 
set 

A purpose evermore before his eyes, 

To hoard all savings to the uttermost, 

To purchase his own boat, and make 
a home 

For Annie : and so prosper'd that at 
last 

A luckier or a bolder fisherman, 

A carefuller in peril, did not breathe 

For leagues along that breaker-beaten 
coast 

Than Enoch. Likewise had he served 
a year 

On board a merchantman, and made 
himself 

Full sailor ; and he thrice had pluck'd 
a life 

From the dread sweep of. the down- 
streaming seas : 

And all men looked upon him favora- 
bly : 

And ere he touch'd his one-and- 
twentieth May, 

He purchased his own boat, and made 
a home 

For Annie, neat and nestlike, halfway 
up 

The narrow street that clamber'd 
toward the mill. 

Then, on a golden autumn even- 
tide, 
The younger people making holiday, 
With bag and sack and basket, great 

and small, 
Went nutting to the hazels. Philip 
stay'd 



(His father lying sick and needing 

him) 
An hour behind; but as he climb'd 

the hill, 
Just where the prone edge of the 

wood began 
To feather toward the hollow, saw the 

pair, 
Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in- 
hand, 
His large gray eyes and weather- 
beaten face 
All-kindled by a still and sacred fire, 
That burn'd as on an altar. Philip 

look'd, 
And in their eyes and faces read his 

doom ; 
Then, as their faces drew together, 

groan'd, 
And slipt aside, and like a wounded 

life 
Crept down into the hollows of the 

wood ; 
There, while the rest were loud in 

merrymaking, 
Had his dark hour unseen, and rose 

and past 
Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart. 

So these were wed, and merrily 

rang the bells, 
And merrily ran the years, seven 

happy years, 
Seven happy years of health and 

competence, 
And mutual love and honorable toil ; 
With children ; first a daughter. In 

him woke, 
With his first babe's first cry, the 

noble wish 
To save all earnings to the uttermost, 
And give his child a better bringing-up 
Than his had been, or hers; a wish 

renew'd, 
When two years after came a boy to be 
The rosy idol of her solitudes, 
While Enoch was abroad on wrathful 

seas, 
Or often journeying landward; for in 

truth 
Enoch's white horse, and Enoch's 

ocean-spoil 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



465 



In ocean-smelling osier, and his face, 

Rough-redden 'd with a thousand win- 
ter gales, 

Not only to the market-cross were 
known, 

But in the leafy lanes behind the 
down. 

Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp, 

And peacock-yewtree of the lonely 
Hall, 

Whose Friday fare was Enoch's min- 
istering. 

Then came a change, as all things 

human change. 
Ten miles to northward of the narrow 

port 
Open'd a larger haven : thither used 
Enoch at times to go by land or 

sea; 
And once when there, and clambering 

on a mast 
In harbor, bv mischance he slipt and 

fell: ' 
A limb was broken when they lifted 

him ; 
And while he lay recovering there, 

his wife 
Bore him another son, a sickly one : 
Another hand crept too across his 

trade- 
Taking her bread and theirs : and on 

him fell, 
Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing 

man, 
Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and 

gloom. 
He seem'd, as in a nightmare of the 

night, 
To see his children leading evermore 
Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth, 
And her, lie loved, a beggar : then he 

pray'd 
" Save them from this, whatever 

comes to me." 
And while he pray'd, the master of 

that ship 
Enoch had served in, hearing his mis- 
chance, 
Came, for he knew the man and 

valued him, 
Reporting of his vessel China-bound, 



And wanting yet a boatswain. Would 

he |*o ? 
There yet were many weeks before she 

sail'd, 
Sail'd from this port. Would Enoch 

have the place 1 
And Enoch all at once assented to it, 
Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer. 

So now that shadow of mischance 

appear'd 
No graver than as when some little 

cloud 
Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun, 
And isles a light in the offing : yet the 

wife — 
When he was gone — the children — 

what to do ? 
Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his 

plans ; 
To sell the boat — and yet he loved 

her well — 
How many a rough sea had he weath- 

er'd in her ! 
He knew her, as a horseman knows his 

horse — 
And yet to sell her — then with what 

she brought 
Buy goods and stores — set Annie forth 

in trade 
With all that seamen needed or their 

wives — 
So might she keep the house while he 

was gone. 
Should he not trade himself out yon- 
der? go 
This voyage more than once? yea twice 

or thrice — 
As oft as needed — last, returning rich, 
Become the master of a larger craft, 
With fuller profits lead an easier life, 
Have all his pretty young ones edu- 
cated, 
And pass his days in peace among his 



Thus Enoch in his heart determined 
all: 
Then moving homeward came on Annie 

pale, 
Nursing the sickly babe, her latest-born . 
Forward she started with a happy cry, 



466 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



And laid the feeble infant m his arms ; 
Whom Enoch took, and handled all his 

limbs, 
Appraised his weight and fondled 

fatherlike, 
But had no heart to break his purposes 
To Annie, till the morrow, when he 

spoke. 

Then first since Enoch's golden ring 

had girt 
Her finger, Annie fought against his 

will: 
Yet not with brawling opposition she, 
But manifold entreaties, many a tear, 
Many a sad kiss by day by night re- 

new'd 
(Sure that all evil would come out of 

it) 
Besought him, supplicating, if he cared 
For her or his dear children, not to go. 
He not for his own self caring but her, 
Her and her children, let her plead in 

vain ; 
So grieving held his will, and bore it 

thro'. 

For Enoch parted with his old sea- 
friend, 

Bought Annie goods and stores, and 
set his hand 

To fit their little streetward sitting- 
room 

With shelf and corner for the goods 
and stores. 

So all day long till Enoch's last at 
home, 

Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer 
and axe, 

Auger and saw, while Annie seem'd to 
hear 

Her own death-scaffold raising, shrill'd 
and rang, 

Till this was ended, and hie careful 
hand, — 

The space was narrow, — having or- 
der'd all 

Almost as neat and close ae Nature 
packs 

Her blossom or her seedling, paused ; 
and he, 



Who needs would work for Annie to 

the last, 
Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn. 

And Enoch faced this morning of 

farewell 
Brightly and boldly. All his Annie's 

fears, 
Save, as his Annie's, were a laughter 

to him. 
Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man 
Bow'd himself down, and in that mys- 
tery 
Where God-in-man is one with man- 

in-God, 
Pray'd for a blessing on his wife and 

babes 
Whatever came to him : and then he 

said 
" Annie, this voyage by the grace of 

God 
Will bring fair weather yet to all of us. 
Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for 

me, 
For I'll be back, my girl, before you 

know it." 
Then lightly rocking baby's cradle 

" and he, 
This pretty, puny, weakly little one, — 
Nay — for I love him all the better for 

it — 
God bless him, he shall sit upon my 

knees 
And I will tell him tales of foreign 

parts, 
And make him merry, when I come 

home again. 
Come, Annie, come, cheer up before I 

go." 

Him running on thus hopefully she 
heard, 
And almost hoped herself ; but when 

he turn'd 
The current of his talk to graver things 
In sailor fashion roughly sermonizing 
On providence and ' trust in Heaven, 

she heard, 
Heard and not heard him ; as the vil- 
lage girl, 
Who sets her pitcher underneath the 
spring, 



ENOCH ARDEN 



467 



Musing on him that used to fill it for 
her, 

Hears and not hears, and lets it over- 
flow. 

At length she spoke " Enoch, you 

are wise ; 
And yet for all your wisdom well 

know I 
That I shall look upon your face no 

more." 

" Well then," said Enoch, " I shall 
look on yours. 
Annie, the ship I sail in passes here 
( He named the day ) get you a seaman's 

glass, 
Spy out my face, and laugh at all your 
fears." 

But when the last of those last mo- 
ments came, 
" Annie, my girl, cheer up, be com- 
forted, 
Look to the babes, and till I come 

again 
Keep everything shipshape, for I must 

go. 
And fear no more for me ; or if you 

fear 
Cast all your cares on God ; that an- 
chor holds. 
Is He not yonder in those uttermost 
Parts of the morning 1 if I flee to these 
Can I go from Him ? and the sea is His, 
The sea is His : He made it." 

Enoch rose, 
Cast his strong arms about his droop- 
ing wife, 
And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little 

ones ; 
But for the third, the sickly one, who 

slept 
After a night of feverous wakefulness, 
When Annie would have raised him 

Enoch said 
" Wake him not ; let him sleep ; how 

should the child 
Remember this 1 " and kiss'd him in 

his cot. 
But Annie from her baby's forehead 

dipt 



A tiny curl, and gave it : this lie kept 
Thro' all his future ; but now hastily 

caught 
His bundle, waved his hand, and went 

his way. 

She, when the day that Enoch 
mention'd, came, 

Borrow'd a glass, but all in vain : 
perhaps 

She could not fix the glass to suit her 
eye; 

Perhaps her eye was dim, hand trem- 
ulous ; 

She saw him not : and while he stood 
on deck 

Waving, the moment and the vessel 
past. 

Ev'n to the last dip of the vanishing 
sail 

She watch'd it, and departed weeping 
for him ; 

Then, tho' she mourn'd his absence as 
his grave, 

Set her sad will no less to chime with 
his, 

But throve not in her trade, not being 
bred 

To barter, nor compensating the want 

By shrewdness, neither capable of lies, 

Nor asking overmuch and taking less, 

And still foreboding "what would 
Enoch say ? " 

For more than once, in days of diffi- 
culty 

And pressure, had she sold her wares 
for less 

Than what she gave in buying what 
she sold : 

She fail'd and sadden'd knowing it; 
and thus, 

Expectant of that news which never 
came, 

Gain'd for her own a scanty suste- 
nance, 

And lived a life of silent melancholy. 

Now the third child was sickly-born 
and grew 
Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for 
it 



468 



ENOCH ARDEJV. 



With all a mother's care : neverthe- 
less, 

Whether her business often call'd her 
from it, 

Or thro' the want of what it needed 
most, 

Or means to pay the voice who best 
could tell 

What most it needed — howsoe'er it 
was, 

After a lingering, — ere she was 
aware, — 

Like the caged bird escaping suddenly, 

The little innocent soul flitted away. 

In that same week when Annie 

buried it, 
Philip's true heart, which hunger'd for 

her peace 
(Since Enoch left he had not look'd 

upon her), 
Smote him, as having kept aloof so 

long. 
" Surely," said Philip, " I may see her 

now, 
May be some little comfort"; there- 
fore went, 
Past thro' the solitary room in front, 
Paused for a moment at an inner door, 
Then struck it thrice, and, no one 

opening, 
Enter'd; but Annie, seated with her 

grief, 
Fresh from the burial of her little one, 
Cared not to look on any human face, 
But turn'd her own toward the wall 

and wept. 
Then Philip standing up said falter- 

ingly 
"Annie, I came to ask a favor of you." 

He spoke ; the passion in her moan'd 

reply 
" Favor from one so sad and so forlorn 
As I am ! " half abash'd him ; yet 

unask'd, 
His bashf ulness and tenderness at war, 
He set himself beside her, saying to 

her : 

" I came to speak to you of what he 
wish'd, 



Enoch, your husband : I have ever 

said 
You chose the best among us — a 

strong man : 
For where he fixt his heart he set his 

hand 
To do the thing he will'd, and bore it 

thro'. 
And wherefore did he go this weary 

way, 
And leave you lonely ? not to see the 

world — 
For pleasure ? — nay, but for the 

wherewithal 
To give his babes a better bringing-up 
Than his had been, or yours : that was 

his wish. 
And if he come again, vext will he be 
To find the precious morning hours 

were lost. 
And it would vex him even in his 

grave, 
If he could know his babes were run- 
ning wild 
Like colts about the waste. So, Annie, 

now — 
Have we not known each other all our 

lives ? 
I do beseech you by the love you 

bear 
Him and his children not to say me 

nay — 
For, if you will, when Enoch comes 

again 
Why then he shall repay me — if you 

will, 
Annie — for I am rich and well-to-do. 
Now let me put the boy and girl to 

school : 
This is the favor that I came to ask." 

Then Annie with her brows against 

the wall 
Answer'd " I cannot look you in the 

face; 
I seem so foolish and so broken down. 
When you came in my sorrow broke 

me down; 
And now I think your kindness breaks 

me down ; 
But Enoch lives ; that is borne in on 

me : 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



469 



lie will repay you: money can be 

repaid; 
Not kindness such as yours." 

And Philip ask'd 
" Then you will let me, Annie ? " 

There she turn'd, 

She rose, and fixt her swimming eyes 
upon him, 

And dwelt a moment on his kindly 
face, 

Then calling down a blessing on his 
head 

Caught at his hand, and wrung it pas- 
sionately, 

And past into the little garth beyond. 

80 lifted up in spirit he moved away. 

Then Philip put the boy and girl to 

school, 
And bought them needful books, and 

everyway. 
Like one who does his duty by his own, 
Made himself theirs ; and tho' for 

Annie's sake, 
Fearing the lazy gossip of the port, 
He oft denied his heart his dearest 

wish, 
And seldom crost her threshold, yet 

he sent 
Gifts by the children, garden-herbs 

and fruit, 
The late and early roses from his wall, 
Or conies from the down, and now and 

then, 
With some pretext of fineness in the 

meal 
To save the offence of charitable, flour 
From his tall mill that whistled on the 

waste. 

But Philip did not fathom Annie's 
mind : 

Scarce could the woman when he came 
upon her, 

Out of full heart and boundless grati- 
tude 

Light on a broken word to thank him 
with. 

But Philip was her children's all-in- 
all; 



From distant corners of the street they 

ran 
To greet his hearty welcome heartily ; 
Lords of his house and of his mill were 

> they ; 
Worried his passive ear with petty 

wrongs 
Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd 

with him 
And call'd him Father Philip. Philip 

gain'd 
As Enoch lost; for Enoch seem'd to 

them 
Uncertain as a vision or a dream, 
Faint as a figure seen in early dawn 
Down at the far end of an avenue, 
Going we know not where : and so ten 

years, 
Since Enoch left his hearth and native 

land, 
Fled forward, and no news of Enoch 

came. 

It chanced one evening Annie's chil- 
dren long'd 

To go with others, nutting to the wood, 

And Annie would go with them ; then 
they begg'd 

For Father Philip (as they call'd him) 
too : 

Him, like the working bee in blossom- 
dust, 

Blanch'd with his mill, they found; 
and saying to him 

" Come with us Father Philip " he 
denied ; 

But when the children pluck'd at him 
to go, 

He laugh 'd, and yielded readily to 
their wish, 

For was not Annie with them ? and 
they went. 

But after scaling half the weary 

down, 
Just where the prone edge of the wood 

began 
To feather toward the hollow, all her 

force 
Fail'd her ; and sighing, " Let me rest " 

she said : 
So Philip rested with her well-content; 



470 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



While all the younger ones with jubi- 
lant cries 

Broke from their elders, and tumul- 
tously 

Down thro' the whitening hazels made 
a plunge 

To the bottom, and dispersed, and 
bent or broke 

The lithe reluctant boughs to tear 
away 

Their tawny clusters, crying to each 
other 

And calling, here and there, about the 
wood. 

But Philip sitting at her side forgot 
Her presence, and remember'd one 

dark hour 
Here in this wood, when like a wounded 

life 
He crept into the shadow : at last he 

said, 
Lifting his honest forehead, " Listen, 

Annie, 
How merry they are down yonder in 

the wood. 
Tired, Annie 1 " for she did not speak 

a word. 
" Tired % " but her face had fall'n upon 

her hands ; 
At which, as with a kind of anger in 

him, 
"The ship was lost/' he said, "the 

ship was lost ! 
No more of that ! why should you kill 

yourself 
And make them orphans quite? " And 

Annie said 
" I thought not of it : but — I know 

not why — 
Their voices make me feel so solitary." 

Then Philip coming somewhat closer 

spoke. 
" Annie, there is a thing upon my 

mind, 
And it has been upon my mind so long, 
That tho' I know not when it first 

came there, 
I know that it will out at last. O 

Annie, 



It is beyond all Hope, against all 

chance, 
That he who left you ten long years 

ago 
Should still be living; well then — 

let me speak " 
I grieve to see you poor and wanting 

help: 
I cannot help you as 1 wish to do 
Unless — they say that women are so 

quick — 
Perhaps you know what I would have 

you know — 
I wish you for my wife. I fain would 

prove 
A father to your children: I do 

think 
They love me as a father : I am sure 
That I love them as if they were mine 

own ; 
And I believe, if you were fast my 

wife, 
That after all these sad uncertain 

years, 
We might be still as happy as God 

grants 
To any of his creatures. Think upon 

it: 
For I am well-to-do — no kin, no care, 
No burthen, save my care for you and 

yours : 
And we have known each other all our 

lives, 
And I have loved you longer than you 

know." 

Then answer'd Annie ; tenderly she 

spoke : 
" You have been as God's good angel 

in our house. 
God bless you for it, God reward you 

for it, 
Philip, with something happier than 

myself. 
Can one love twice ? can you be ever 

loved 
As Enoch was ? what is it that you 

ask ? " 
" I am content " he answer'd " to be 

loved 
A little after Enoch." "O" she 

cried, 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



471 



Scared as it were, "dear Philip, wait 

a while : 
If Enoch comes — but Enoch will not 

come — 
Yet wait a year, a year is not so long: 
Surely I shall be wiser in a year : 

wait a little ! " Philip sadly said 
" Annie, as I have waited all my life 

1 well may wait a little." " Nay " she 

cried 
" I am bound : you have my promise 

— in a year : 
Will you not bide your year as I bide 

mine ? " 
And Philip answer'd " I will bide my 

year." 

Here both were mute, till Philip 

glancing up 
Beheld the dead flame of the fallen 

day 
Pass from the Danish barrow over- 
head ; 
Then fearing night and chill for 

Annie, rose 
And sent his voice beneath him thro' 

the wood. 
Up came the children laden with their 

spoil ; 
Then all descended to the port, and 

there 
At Annie's door he paused and gave 

his hand, 
Saying gently " Annie, when I spoke 

to you, 
That was your hour of weakness. I 

was wrong, 
I am always bound to you, but you 

are free." 
Then Annie weeping answer'd "I am 

bound." 

She spoke ; and in one moment as 
it were, 

While yet she went about her house- 
hold ways, 

Ev'n as she dwelt upon his latest 
words, 

That he had loved her longer than she 
knew, 

That a utumn into autumn flash'd 
again, 



And there he stood once more before 

her face, 
Claiming her promise. " Is it a year ? " 

she ask'd. 
" Yes, if the nuts " he said " be ripe 

again : 
Come out and see." But she — she 

put him off — 
So much to look to — such a change 

— a month — 
Give her a month — she knew that 

she was bound — 
A month — no more. Then Philip 

with his eyes 
Full of that lifelong hunger, and his 

voice 
Shaking a little like a drunkard's hand, 
" Take your own time, Annie, take 

your own time." 
And Annie could have wept for pity 

of him ; 
And yet she held him on delayingly 
With many a scarce-believable excuse, 
Trying his truth and his long-suffer- 
ance, 
Till half-another year had slipt away. 

By this the lazy gossips of the port, 
Abhorrent of a calculation crost, 
Began to chafe as at a personal wrong. 
Some thought that Philip did but 

trifle with her ; 
Some that she but held off to draw 

him on ; 
And others laugh'd at her and Philip 

too, 
As simple folk that knew not their 

own minds, 
And one, in whom all evil fancies clung 
Like serpent eggs together, laughingly 
Would hint at worse in either. Her 

own son 
Was silent, tho' he often look'd his 

wish ; 
But evermore the daughter prestupon 

her 
To wed the man so dear to all of them 
And lift the household out of poverty ; 
And Philip's rosy face contracting 

grew 
Careworn and wan ; and all these 

things fell on her 



472 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



Sharp as reproach. 

At last one night it chanced 
That Annie could not sleep, but ear- 
nestly 
Pray'd for a sign "my Enoch is he 

gone ? " 
Then compass'd round by the blind 

wall of night 
Brook'd not the expectant terror of 

her heart, 
Started from bed, and struck herself 

a light, 
Then desperately seized the holy Book, 
Suddenly set it wide to find a sign, 
Suddenly put her finger on the text, 
" Under the palm-tree." That was 

nothing to her : 
No meaning there : she closed the 

Book and slept : 
When lo ! her Enoch sitting on a 

height, 
Under a palm-tree, over him the 

Sun: 
" He is gone," she thought, " he is 

happy, he is singing 
Hosanna in the highest : yonder shines 
The Sun of Righteousness, and these 

be palms 
Whereof the happy people strowing 

cried 
' Hosanna in the highest ! ' " Here 

she woke, 
Resolved, sent for him and said wildly 

to him 
"There is no reason why we should 

not wed." 
" Then for God's sake," he answered, 

" both our sakes, 
So you will wed me, let it be at once." 

So these were wed and merrily rang 

the bells, 
Merrily rang the bells and they were 

wed. 
But never merrily beat Annie's heart. 
A footstep seem'd to fall beside her 

path, 
She knew not whence ; a whisper on 

her ear, 
She knew not what : nor loved she to 

be left 



Alone at home, nor ventured out 

alone. 
What ail'd her then, that ere she 

enter'd, often 
Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the 

latch, 
Fearing to enter: Philip thought he 

knew: 
Such doubts and fears were common 

to her state, 
Being with child : but when her child 

was born, 
Then her new child was as herself 

renew'd, 
Then the new mother came about her 

heart, 
Then her good Philip was her all-in-all, 
And that mysterious instinct wholly 

died. 

And where was Enoch 1 prosper- 
ously sail'd 

The ship " Good Fortune," tho' at 
setting forth 

The Biscay, roughly ridging eastward, 
shook 

And almost overwhelm'd her, yet 
unvext 

She slipt across the summer of the 
world, 

Then after a long tumble about the 
Cape 

And frequent interchange of foul and 
fair, 

She passing thro' the summer world 
again, 

The breath of heaven came continu- 
ally 

And sent her sweetly by the golden 
isles, 

Till silent in her oriental haven. 

There Enoch traded for himself, 

and bought 
Quaint monsters for the market of 

those times, 
A gilded dragon, also, for the babes. 

Less lucky her home-voyage : at 
first indeed 
Thro' many a fair sea-circle, day by 
day, 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



473 



Scarce-rocking, her full-busted figure- 
head 

Stared o'er the ripple feathering from 
her bows : 

Then follow'd calms, and then winds 
variable, 

Then baffling, a long course of them ; 
and last 

Storm, such as drove her under moon- 
less heavens 

Till hard upon the cry of " breakers " 
came 

The crash of ruin, and the loss of all 

But Enoch and two others. Half the 
night, 

Buoy'd upon floating tackle and 
broken spars, 

These drifted, stranding on an isle at 
morn 

Rich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea. 

No want was there of human suste- 
nance, 

Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nour- 
ishing roots ; 

Nor save for pity was it hard to take 

The helpless life so wild that it was 
tame. 

There in a seaward-gazing mountain- 
gorge 

They built, and thatch'd with leaves 
of palm, a hut, 

Half hut, half native cavern. So the 
three, 

Set in this Eden of all plenteousness, 

Dwelt with eternal summer, ill- 
content. 

For one, the youngest, hardly more 

than boy, 
Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and 

wreck, 
Lay lingering out a five-years' death- 
in-life. 
They could not leave him. After he 

was gone, 
The two remaining found a fallen 

stem ; 
And Enoch's comrade, careless of 

himself, 
Eire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, 

fell 



Sun-stricken, and that other lived 

alone. 
In those two deaths he read God's 

warning " wait." 

The mountain wooded to the peak, 

the lawns 
And winding glades high up like ways 

to Heaven, 
The slender coco's drooping crown of 

plumes, 
The lightning flash of insect and of 

bird, 
The lustre of the long convolvuluses 
That coil'd around the stately stems, 

and ran 
Ev'n to the limit of the land, the glows 
And glories of the broad belt of the 

world, 
All these he saw; but what he fain 

had seen 
He could not see, the kindly human 

face, 
Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard 
The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean- 
fowl, 
The league-long roller thundering on 

the reef, 
The moving whisper of huge trees 

that branch'd 
And blossom'd in the zenith, or the 

sweep 
Of some precipitous rivulet to the 

wave, 
As down the shore he ranged, or all 

day long 
Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge, 
A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a 

sail: 
No sail from day to day, but every day 
The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts 
Among the palms and ferns and 

precipices ; 
The blaze upon the waters to the east ; 
The blaze upon his island overhead ; 
The blaze upon the waters to the west ; 
Then the great stars that globed 

themselves in Heaven, 
The hollower-bellowing ocean, and 

again 
The scarlet shafts of sunrise — but no 

sail. 



474 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



There often as he watch'd or seem'd 

to watch, 
So still, the golden lizard on him 

paused, 
A phantom made of many phantoms 

moved 
Before him haunting him, or he him- 
self 
Moved haunting people, things and 

places, known 
Far in a darker isle beyond the line ; 
The babes, their babble, Annie, the 

small house, 
The climbing street, the mill, the 

leafy lanes, 
The peacock-yewtree and the lonely 

Hall, 
The horse he drove, the boat he sold, 

the chill 
November dawns and dewy-glooming 

downs, 
The gentle shower, the smell of dying 

leaves, 
And the low moan of leaden-color'd 



Once likewise, in the ringing of his 

ears, 
Tho' faintly, merrily — far and far 

away — 
He heard the pealing of his parish 

bells ; 
Then, tho' he knew not wherefore, 

started up 
Shuddering, and when the beauteous 

hateful isle 
Return'd upon him, had not his poor 

heart 
Spoken with That, which being every- 
where 
Lets none, who speaks with Him, seem 

all alone, 
Surely the man had died of solitude. 

Thus over Enoch's early-silvering 

head 
The sunny and rainy seasons came 

and went 
Year after year. His hopes to see 

his own, 
And pace the sacred old familiar 

fields, 



Not yet had perish'd, when his lonely 

doom 
Came suddenly to an end. Another 

ship 
(She wanted water) blown by baffling 

winds, 
Like the Good Fortune, from her 

destined course, 
Stay'd by this isle, not knowing where 

she lay: 
For since the mate had seen at early 

dawn 
Across a break on the mist-wreathen 

isle 
The silent water slipping from the 

hills, 
They sent a crew that landing burst 

away 
In search of stream or fount, and 

filPd the shores 
With clamor. Downward from his 

mountain gorge 
Stept the long-hair'd, long-bearded 

solitary, 
Brown, looking hardly human, 

strangely clad, 
Muttering and mumbling, idiotlike it 

seem'd, 
With inarticulate rage, and making 

signs 
They knew not what : and yet he led 

the way 
To where the rivulets of sweet water 

ran; 
And ever as he mingled with the crew, 
And heard them talking, his long- 

bounden tongue 
Was loosen'd, till he made them 

understand ; 
Whom, when their casks were fill'd 

they took aboard : 
And there the tale he utter'd brokenly, 
Scarce-credited at first but more and 

more, 
Amazed and melted all who listen'cl 

to it : 
And clothes they gave him and free 

passage home ; 
But oft he work'd among the rest and 

shook 
His isolation from him. None of 

these 




There often as he watched or seemed to watch, 
So still, the golden lizard on him paused." 

Page 474. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



475 



Came from his country, or could an- 
swer him, 

If question'd, aught of what he cared 
to know. 

And dull the voyage was with long 
delays, 

The vessel scarce sea-worthy ; but 
evermore 

His fancy fled before the lazy wind 

Returning, till beneath a clouded 
moon 

Me like a lover down thro' all his 
blood 

Drew in the dewy meadowy morning- 
breath 

Of England, blown across her ghostly 
wall : 

And that same morning officers and 
men 

Levied a kindly tax upon themselves, 

Pitying the lonely man, and gave him 
it: 

Then moving up the coast they landed 
him, 

Ev'n in that harbor whence he sail'd 
before. 

There Enoch spoke no word to any 

one, 
But homeward — home — what home'? 

had he a home ? 
His home, he walk'd. Bright was that 

'afternoon, 
Sunny but chill ; till drawn thro' either 

chasm, 
Where either haven open'd on the 

deeps, 
Roll'd a sea-haze and whelm'd the 

world in gray ; 
Cut off the length of highway on be- 
fore, 
And left but narrow breadth to left 

and right 
Of wither'd holt or tilth or pasturage. 
On the nigh-naked tree the robin 

piped 
Disconsolate, and thro' the dripping 

haze 
The dead weight of the dead leaf bore 

it down : 
Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the 

gloom ; 



Last, as it seem'd, a great mist-blotted 

light 
Flared on him, and he came upon the 

place. 

Then down the long street having 

slowly stolen, 
His heart foreshadowing all calamity, 
His eyes upon the stones, he reach'd 

the home 
Where Annie lived and loved him, and 

his babes 
In those far-off seven happy years were 

born; 
But finding neither light nor murmur 

there 
(A bill of sale gleam'd thro' the drizzle) 

crept 
Still downward thinking " dead or 

dead to me ! " 

Down to the pool and narrow wharf 

he went, 
Seeking a tavern which of old he knew, 
A front of timber-crost antiquity, 
So propt, worm eaten, ruinously old, 
He thought it must have gone ; but he 

was gone 
Who kept it ; and his widow Miriam 

Lane, 
With daily-dwindling profits held the 

house ; 
A haunt of brawling seamen once, but 

now 
Stiller, with yet a bed for wandering 

men. 
There Enoch rested silent many days. 

But Miriam Lane was good and 

garrulous, 
Nor let him be, but often breaking in, 
Told him, with other annals of the 

port, 
Not knowing — Enoch was so brown, 

so bow'd, 
So broken — all the story of his house. 
His baby's death, her growing poverty, 
How Philip put her little ones to 

school, 
And kept them in it, his long wooing 

her, 



476 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



Her slow consent, and marriage, and 

the birth 
Of Philip's child : and o'er his coun- 
tenance 
No shadow past, nor motion : any one, 
Regarding, well had deem'd he felt 

the tale 
Less than the teller: only when she 

closed 
"Enoch, poor man, was cast away and 

lost" 
He, shaking his gray head pathetically, 
Repeated muttering " cast away and 

lost"; 
Again in deeper inward whispers 

"lost! " 

But Enoch yearn'd to see her face 

again; 
" If I might look on her sweet face 

again 
And know that she is happy." So the 

thought 
Haunted and harass'd him, and drove 

him forth, 
At evening when the dull November 

day 
Was growing duller twilight, to the 

hill. 
There he sat down gazing on all below ; 
There did a thousand memories roll 

upon him, 
Unspeakable for sadness. By and by 
The ruddy square of comfortable light, 
Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's 

house, 
Allured him, as the beacon-blaze al- 
lures 
The bird of passage, till he madly 

strikes 
Against it, and beats out his weary 

life. 



For Philip's dwelling fronted on the 
street, 

The latest house to landward; but be- 
hind, 

With one small gate that open'd on 
the waste, 

Flourish'd a little garden square and 
wall'd : 



And in it throve an ancient evergreen, 
A yewtree, and all round it ran a walk 
Of shingle, and a walk divided it : 
But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk 

and stole 
Up by the wall, behind the yew ; and 

thence 
That which he better might have 

shunn'd, if griefs 
Like his have worse or better, Enoch 

saw. 

For cups and silver on the burnish'd 

board 
Sparkled and shone ; so genial was the 

hearth : 
And on the right hand of the hearth 

he saw 
Philip, the slighted suitor of old times, 
Stout, rosy, with his babe across his 

knees ; 
And o'er her second father stoopt a 

girl, 
A later but a loftier Annie Lee, 
Fair-hair'd and tall, and from her 

lifted hand 
Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring 
To tempt the babe, who rear'd his 

creasy arms, 
Caught at and ever miss'd it, and they 

laugh'd ; 
And on the left hand of the hearth he 

saw 
The mother glancing often toward her 

babe, 
But turning now and then to speak 

with him, 
Her son, who stood beside her tall and 

strong, 
And saying that which pleased him, 

for he smiled. 

Now when the dead man come to life 
beheld 

His wife his wife no more, and saw the 
babe 

Hers, yet not his, upon the father's 
knee, 

And all the warmth, the peace, the 
happiness, 

And his own children tall and beauti- 
ful, 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



477 



And him, that other, reigning in his 

place, 
Lord of his rights and of his children's 

love, — 
Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told 

him all, 
Because things seen are mightier than 

things heard, 
Stagger'd and shook, holding the 

branch, and fear'd 
To send abroad a shrill and terrible 

cry, 
Which in one moment, like the blast 

of doom, 
Would shatter all the happiness of the 

hearth. 

He therefore turning softly like a 
thief, 

Lest the harsh shingle should grate 
underfoot, 

And feeling all along the garden-wall, 

Lest he should swoon and tumble and 
be found, 

Crept to the gate, and open'd it, and 
closed, 

As lightly as a sick man's chamber- 
door, 

Behind him, and came out upon the 
waste. 

And there he would have knelt, but 

that his knees 
Were feeble, so that falling prone he 

dug 
His fingers into the wet earth, and 

pray'd. 

"Too hard to bear! why did they 

take me thence ? 
God Almighty, blessed Saviour, 

Thou 
That didst uphold me on my lonely 

isle, 
Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness 
A little longer ! aid me, give me 

strength 
Not to tell her, never to let her know. 
Help me not to break in upon her 

peace. 
My children too ! must I not speak to 

these 1 



They know me not. I should betray 
myself. • 

Never : No father's kiss for me — the 
girl 

So like her mother, and the boy, my 
son." 

There speech and thought and na- 
ture fail'd a little, 
And he lay tranced ; but when lie rose 

and paced 
Back toward his solitary home again, 
All down the long and narrow street 

he went 
Beating it in upon his weary brain, 
As tho' it were the burthen of a song, 
" Not to tell her, never to let her 
know." 

He was not all unhappy. His resolve 

Upbore him, and firm faith, and ever- 
more 

Prayer from a living source within the 
will, 

And beating up thro' all the bitter 
world, 

Like fountains of sweet water in the 
sea, 

Kept him a living soul. " This mil- 
ler's wife " 

He said to Miriam "that you spoke 
about, 

Has she no fear that her first husband 
lives % " 

"Ay, ay, poor soul" said Miriam, 
" fear enow ! 

If you could tell her you had seen him 
dead, 

Why, that would be her comfort;" 
and he thought 

" After the Lord has call'd me she 
shall know, 

I wait His time," and Enoch set him- 
self, 

Scorning an alms, to work whereby 
to live. 

Almost to all things could he turn his 
hand. 

Cooper he was and carpenter, and 
wrought 

To make the boatmen fishing-nets, or J 
help'd 



478 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



At lading and unlading the tall barks, 
That brought the stinted commerce 

of those days ; 
Thus earn'd a scanty living for him- 
self: 
Yet since he did but labor for himself, 
Work without hope, there was not life 

in it 
Whereby the man could live ; and as 

the year 
Roll'd itself round again to meet the 

day 
When Enoch had return'd, a languor 

came 
Upon him, gentle sickness, gradually 
Weakening the man, till he could do 

no more, 
But kept the house, his chair, and last 

his bed. 
And Enoch bore his weakness cheer- 

fully. 
Eor sure no gladlier does the stranded 

wreck 
See thro' the gray skirts of a lifting 

squall 
The boat that bears the hope of life 

approach 
To save the life despair'd of, than he 

saw 
Death dawning on him, and the close 

of all. 

For thro' that dawning gleam'd a 

kindlier hope 
On Enoch thinking "after I am 

gone, 
Then may she learn I lov'd her to the 

last." 
He call'd aloud for Miriam Lane and 

said 
" Woman, I have a secret — only swear, 
Before I tell you — swear upon the 

book 
Not to reveal it, till you see me dead." 
"Dead," clamor'd the good woman, 

" hear him talk ! 
I warrant, man, that we shall bring 

you round." 
" Swear" added Enoch sternly " on 

the book." 
And on the book, half-frighted, Miriam 

swore. 



Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon 

her, 
" Did you know Enoch Arden of this 

town ? " 
" Know him 1 " she said " I knew him 

far away. 
Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the 

street ; 
Held his head high, and cared for no 

man, he." 
Slowly and sadly Enoch answer'd 

her; 
" His head is low, and no man cares 

for him. 
I think I have not three days more to 

live ; 
I am the man." At which the woman 

gave 
A half -incredulous, half -hysterical 

cry. 
" You Arden, you ! nay, — sure he was 

a foot 
Higher than you be." Enoch said 

again 
" My God has bow'd me down to what 

I am; 
My grief and solitude have broken 

me; 
Nevertheless, know you that I am he 
Who married — but that name has 

twice been changed — 
I married her who married Philip 

Ray. 
Sit, listen." Then he told her of his 

voyage, 
His wreck, his lonely life, his coming 

back, 
His gazing in on Annie, his resolve, 
And how he kept it. As the woman 

heard, 
Fast flow'd the current of her easy 

tears, 
While in her heart she yearn'd inces- 
santly 
To rush abroad all round the little 

haven, 
Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his 

woes; 
But awed and promise-bounden she 

forbore, 
Saying only " See your bairns before 

you go ! 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



479 



Eh, let me fetch 'em, Arden," and 

arose 
Eager to bring them down, for Enoch 

hung 
A moment on her words, but then 

replied : 

" Woman, disturb me not now at the 
last, 

But let me hold my purpose till I die. 

Sit down again ; mark me and under- 
stand, 

While I have power to speak. I 
charge you now, 

When you shall see her, tell her that 
I died 

Blessing her, praying for her, loving 
her; 

Save for the bar between us, loving 
her 

As when she laid her head beside my 
own. 

And tell my daughter Annie, whom I 
saw 

So like her mother, that my latest 
breath 

Was spent in blessing her and pray- 
ing for her. 

And tell my son that I died blessing 
him. 

And say to Philip that I blest him 
too ; 

He never meant us any thing but good. 

But if my children care to see me 
dead, 

Who hardly knew me living, let them 
come, 

I am their father ; but she must not 
come, 

For my dead face would vex her after- 
life. 

And now there is but one of all my 
blood 



Who will embrace me in the world-to- 
be : 
This hair is his : she cut it off and 

gave it, 
And I have borne it with me all these 

years. 
And thought to bear it with me to my 

grave ; 
But now my mind is changed, for I 

shall see him, 
My babe in bliss : wherefore when I 

am gone, 
Take, give her this, for it may comfort 

her: 
It will moreover be a token to her, 
That I am he." 

He ceased ; and Miriam Lane 

Made such a voluble answer promis- 
ing all, 

That once again he roll'd his eyes up- 
on her 

Repeating all he wish'd, and once again 

She promised. 

Then the third night after this, 
While Enoch slumber'd motionless 

and pale, 
And Miriam- watch'd and dozed at 

intervals, 
There came so loud a calling of the sea, 
That all the houses in the haven rang. 
He woke, he rose, he spread his arms 

abroad 
Crying with a loud voice "A sail! a 

sail! 
I am saved ; " and so fell back and 

spoke no more. 

So past the strong heroic soul away. 
And when they buried him the little 

port 
Had seldom seen a costlier funeral. 



480 



IN MEMORIAM. 



IN MEMORIAM A. H. H. 



OBIIT MDCCOXXXIII. 



Strong Son of God, immortal Love, 
Whom we, that have not seen thy 

face, 
By faith, and faith alone, embrace, 

Believing where we cannot prove ; 

Thine are these orbs of light and 
shade ; 
Thou madest Life in man and 

brute ; 
Thou madest Death ; and lo, thy 
foot 
Is on the skull which thou hast made. 

Thou wilt not leave us in the dust : 
Thou madest man, he knows not 

why, 
He thinks he was not made to die; 
And thou hast made him : thou art 
just. 

Thou seemest human and divine, 

The highest, holiest manhood, 

thou : 
Our wills are ours, we know not 
how ; 
Our wills are ours, to make them 
thine. 

Our little systems have their day, 
They have their day and cease 

to be: 
They are but broken lights of 
thee, 
And thou, Lord, art more than they. 

We have but faith : we cannot know ; 

For knowledge is of things we see ; 

And yet we trust it comes from 
thee, 
A beam in darkness : let it grow. 

Let knowledge grow from more to 
more, 
But more of reverence in us 
dwell ; 



That mind and soul, according 
well, 
May make one music as before, 

But vaster. We are fools and slight ; 

We mock thee when we do not 
fear : 

But help thy foolish ones to bear; 
Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. 

Forgive what seem'd my sin in me ; 

What seem'd my worth since I 
began ; 

For merit lives from man to man, 
And not from man, O Lord, to thee. 

Forgive my grief for one removed, 
Thy creature, whom I found so 

fair. 
I trust he lives in thee, and there 

I find him worthier to be loved. 

Forgive these wild and wandering 
cries, 
Confusions of a wasted youth ; 
Forgive them where they fail in 
truth, 
And in thy wisdom make me wise. 



I held it truth, with him who sings 
To one clear harp in divers tones, 
That men may rise on stepping- 
stones 

Of their dead selves to higher things. 

But who shall so forecast the years 
And find in loss a gain to match 1 
Or reach a hand thro' time to 
catch 

The far-off interest of tears ? 

Let Love clasp Grief lest both be 
drown'd, 



IN MEMORIAM. 



481 



Let darkness keep her raven 

gloss : 
Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss, 
To dance with death, to beat the 

ground, 

Than that the victor Hours should 
scorn 
The long result of love, and 

boast, 
" Behold the man that loved and 
lost, 
But all he was is overworn." 



Old Yew, which graspest at the stones 
That name the under-lying dead, 
Thy fibres net the dreamless head, 

Thy roots are wrapt about the bones. 

The seasons bring the flower again, 
And bring the firstling to the 

flock; 
And in the dusk of thee, the 
clock 
Beats out the little lives of men. 

O not for thee the glow, the bloom, 
Who changest not in any gale, 
Nor branding summer suns avail 

To touch thy thousand years of 
gloom : 

And gazing on thee, sullen tree, 

Sick for thy stubborn hardihood, 
I seem to fail from out my blood 

And grow incorporate into thee. 



in. 

Sorrow, cruel fellowship, 

( ) Priestess in the vaults of Death, 
O sweet and bitter in a breath, 

What whispers from thy lying lip 1 

" The stars," she whispers, " blindly 
run; 
A web is wov'n across the sky ; 
From out waste places comes a 
cry, 
And murmurs from the dying sun : 



" And all the phantom, Nature, 
stands — 
With all the music in her tone, 
A hollow echo of my own, — 

A hollow form with empty hands." 

And shall I take a thing so blind, 
Embrace her as my natural good ; 
Or crush her, like a vice of blood, 

Upon the threshold of the mind 1 



To Sleep I give my powers away ; 

My will is bondsman to the dark; 

I sit within a helmless bark, 
And with my heart I muse and say : 

O heart, how fares it with thee now, 
That thou should'st fail from thy 

desire, 
Who scarcely darest to inquire, 

" What is it makes me beat so low 1 " 

Something it is which thou hast lost, 
Some pleasure from thine early 

years. 
Break, thou deep vase of chilling 
tears, 
That grief hath shaken into frost ! 

Such clouds of nameless trouble cross 
All night below the darken'd 

eyes ; 
With morning wakes the will, and 
cries, 
" Thou shalt not be the fool of loss." 



I sometimes hold it half a sin 

To put in words the grief I feel ; 
For words, like Nature, half re- 
veal 

And half conceal the Soul within. 

But, for the unquiet heart and brain, 
A use in measured language lies ; 
The sad mechanic exercise, 

Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. 

In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, 
Like coarsest clothes against the 
cold : 



482 



IN MEMORIAM. 



But that large grief which these 
enfold 
Is given in outline and no more. 

VI. 

One writes, that " Other friends re- 
main," 
That " Loss is common to the 

race " — 
And common is the commonplace, 
And vacant chaff well meant for grain. 

That loss is common would not make 
My own less bitter, rather more : 
Too common ! Never morning 
wore 

To evening, but some heart did break. 

O father, wheresoever thou be, 

Who pledgestnowthy gallant son; 
A shot, ere half thy draught be 
done, 

Hath still' d the life that beat from thee. 

O mother, praying God will save 

Thy sailor, — while thy head is 

bow'd 
His heavy-shotted hammock- 
shroud 
Drops in his vast and wandering grave. 

Ye know no more than I who wrought 
At that last hour to please him 

well; 
Who mused on all I had to tell, 
And something written, something 
thought ; 

Expecting still his advent home ; 
And ever met him on his way 
With wishes, thinking, " here to- 
day," 

Or "here to-morrow will he come." 

O somewhere, meek, unconscious dove, 
That sittest ranging golden hair ; 
And glad to find thyself so fair, 

Poor child, that waitest for thy love ! 

For now her father's chimney glows 
In expectation of a guest ; 



And thinking " this will please 
him best," 
She takes a riband or a rose ; 

For he will see them on to-night ; 

And with the thought her color 

burns ; 
And, having left the glass, she 
turns 
Once more to set a ringlet right ; 

And, even when she turn'd, the curse 
Had fallen, and her future Lord 
Was drown'd in passing thro' the 
ford, 

Or kill'd in falling from his horse. 

O what to her shall be the end 1 

And what to me remains of good ? 
To her, perpetual maidenhood, 

And unto me no second friend. 

VII. 

Dark house, by which once more I 
stand 
Here in the long unlovely street, 
Doors, where my heart was used 
to beat 
So quickly, waiting for a hand, 

A hand that can be clasp'd no more — 
Behold me, for I cannot sleep, 
And like a guilty thing I creep 

At earliest morning to the door. 

He is not here ; but far away 

The noise of life begins again, 
And ghastly thro' the drizzling 
rain 
On the bald street breaks the blank 
day. 



A happy lover who has come 

To look on her that loves him well, 
Who 'lights and rings the gate- 
way bell, 
And learns her gone and far from 
home ; 

He saddens, all the magic light 



IN MEMORIAM. 



483 



Dies off at once from bower and 

hall, 
And all the place is dark, and all 
The chambers emptied of delight : 

So find I every pleasant spot 

In which we two were wont to 

meet, 
The field, the chamber and the 
street, 
For all is dark where thou art not. 

Yet as that other, wandering there 
In those deserted walks, may find 
A flower beat with rain and wind, 

Which once she f oster'd up with care ; 

So seems it in my deep regret, 

ray forsaken heart, with thee 
And this poor flower of poesy 

Which little cared for fades not yet. 

But since it pleased a vanish'd eye, 

1 go to plant it on his tomb, 
That if it can it there may bloom, 

Or dying, there at least may die. 



Fair ship, that from the Italian shore 
Sailest the placid ocean-plains 
With my lost Arthur's loved re- 
mains, 
Spread thy full wings, and waft him 
o'er. 

So draw him home to those that mourn 
In vain ; a favorable speed 
Ruffle thy mirror'd mast, and lead 

Thro' prosperous floods his holy urn. 

All night no ruder air perplex 

Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, 

bright 
As our pure love, thro' early light 

Shall glimmer on the dewy decks. 

Sphere all your lights around, above; 
Sleep, gentle heavens, before the 

prow; 
Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps 
now, 
My friend, the brother of my love ; 



My Arthur, whom I shall not see 

Till all my widow'd race be run; 
Dear as the mother to the son, 

More than my brothers are to me. 



I hear the noise about thy keel ; 

I hear the bell struck in the night : 
I see the cabin-window bright ; 

I see the sailor at the wheel. 

Thou bring'st the sailor to his wife, 
And travell'd men from foreign 

lands ; 
And letters unto trembling hands ; 

And, thy dark freight, a vanish'd life. 

So bring him : we have idle dreams : 
This look of quiet flatters thus 
Our home-bred fancies : to us, 

The fools of habit, sweeter seems 

To rest beneath the clover sod, 

That takes the sunshine and the 

rains, 
Or where the kneeling hamlet 
drains 
The chalice of the grapes of God ; 

Than if with thee the roaring wells 
Should gulf him fathom-deep in 

brine ; 
And hands so often clasp'd in 
mine, 
Should toss with tangle and with shells. 



Calm is the morn without a sound, 
Calm as to suit a calmer grief, 
And only thro' the faded leaf 

The chestnut pattering to the ground : 

Calm and deep peace on this high wold, 
And on these dews that drench 

the furze, 
And all the silvery gossamers 

That twinkle into green and gold: 

Calm and still light on yon great plain 
That sweeps with all its autumn 
bowers, 



484 



IN MEMORIAM. 



And crowded farms and lessening 
towers, 
To mingle with the bounding main : 

Calm and deep peace in this wide air, 
These leaves that redden to the 

fall; 
And in my heart, if calm at all, 

If any calm, a calm despair : 

Calm on the seas, and silver sleep, 
And waves that sway themselves 

in rest, 
And dead calm in that noble 
breast 
Which heaves but with the heaving 
deep. 



Lo, as a dove when up she springs 
To bear thro' Heaven a tale of woe, 
Some dolorous message knit below 

The wild pulsation of her wings ; 

Like her I go ; I cannot stay ; 

I leave this mortal ark behind, 
A weight of nerves without a mind, 

And leave the cliffs, and haste away 

O'er ocean-mirrors rounded large, 
And reach the glow of southern 

skies, 
And see the sails at distance rise, 

And linger weeping on the marge, 

And saying ; " Comes he thus, my 
friend 1 
Is this the end of all my care ? " 
And circle moaning in the air : 

" Is this the end ? Is this the end ? " 

And forward dart again, and play 
About the prow, and back return 
To where the body sits, and learn 

That I have been an hour away. 



Tears of the widower, when he sees 
A late-lost form that sleep reveals, 
And moves his doubtful arms, 
and feels 

Her place is empty, fall like these ; 



Which weep a loss for ever new, 

A void where heart on heart re- 
posed ; 
And, where warm hands have 
prest and closed, 
Silence, till I be silent too. 

Which weep the comrade of my 
choice, 
An awful thought, a life re- 
moved, 
The human-hearted man I loved, 
A Spirit, not a breathing voice. 

Come Time, and teach me, many 
years, 
I do not suffer in a dream : 
For now so strange do these 
things seem, 
Mine eyes have leisure for their 
tears ; 

My fancies time to rise on wing, 

And glance about the approach- 
ing sails, 
As tho' they brought but mer- 
chants' bales, 
And not the burthen that they bring. 



If one should bring me this report, 
That thou hadst touch'd the land 

to-day, 
And I went down unto the quay, 

And found thee lying in the port ; 

And standing, muffled round with 
woe, 
Should see thy passengers in 

rank 
Come stepping lightly down the 
plank, 
And beckoning unto those they know; 

And if along with these should come 
The man I held as half -divine ; 
Should strike a sudden hand in 
mine, 

And ask a thousand things of home ; 



IN MEM OR I AM. 



485 



And I should tell him all my pain, 
And how my life had droop'd of 

late, 
And he should sorrow o'er my 
state 
And marvel what possess'd my brain ; 

And I perceived no touch of change, 
No hint of death in all his frame, 
But found him all in all the 
same, 

I should not feel it to be strange. 

xv. 

To-night the winds begin to rise 

And roar from yonder dropping 

day: 
The last red leaf is whirl'd away, 

The rooks are blown about the skies ; 

The forest crack'd, the waters curl'd, 
The cattle huddled on the lea; 
And wildly dash'd on tower and 
tree 

The sunbeam strikes along the world : 

And but for fancies, which aver 

That all thy motions gently pass 
Athwart a plane of molten glass, 

I scarce could brook the strain and 
stir 

That makes the barren branches 
loud ; 
And but for fear it is not so, 
The wild unrest that lives in woe 

Would dote and pore on yonder cloud 

That rises upward always higher, 

And onward drags a laboring 

breast, 
And topples round the dreary 
west, 
A looming bastion fringed with fire. 



What words are these have fall'n 
from me 1 
Can calm despair and wild unrest 
Be tenants of a single breast, 

Or sorrow such a changeling be ? 



Or doth she only seem to take 

The touch of change in calm or 

storm ; 
But knows no more of transient 
form 
In her deep self, than some dead lake 

That holds the shadow of a lark 

Hung in the shadow of a heaven 1 
Or has the shock, so harshly 
given, 

Confused me like the unhappy bark 

That strikes by night a craggy shelf, 
And staggers blindly ere she 

sink? 
And stunn'd me from my power 
to think 
And all my knowledge of myself ; 

And made me that delirious man 

Whose fancy fuses old and new, 
And flashes into false and true, 

And mingles all without a plan 1 

XVII. 

Thou comest, much wept for : such a 
breeze 
Compell'd thy canvas, and my 

prayer 
Was as the whisper of an air 
To breathe thee over lonely seas. 

For I in spirit saw thee move 

Thro' circles of the bounding 

sky, 
Week after week : the days go 
by: 
Come quick, thou bringest all I love. 

Henceforth, wherever thou may'st 
roam, 
My blessing, like a line of light, 
Is on the waters day and night, 

And like a beacon guards thee home. 

So may whatever tempest mars 

Mid-ocean, spare thee, sacred 

bark ; 
And balmy drops in summer 
dark 
Slide from the bosom of the stars. 



486 



IN MEMORIAM. 



So kind an office hath been done, 

Such precious relics brought by 

thee ; 
The dust of him I shall not see 

Till all my widow'd race be run. 



"Tis well ; 'tis something ; we may 
stand 
Where he in English earth is laid, 
And from his ashes may be made 

The violet of his native land. 

'Tis little ; but it looks in truth 

As if the quiet bones were blest 
Among familiar names to rest 

And in the places of his youth. 

Come then, pure hands, and bear the 
head 
That sleeps or wears the mask of 

sleep, 
And come, whatever loves to 
weep, 
And hear the ritual of the dead. 

Ah yet, ev'n yet, if this might be, 
I, falling on his faithful heart, 
Would breathing thro' his lips 
impart 

The life that almost dies in me ; 

That dies not, but endures with pain, 
And slowly forms the firmer 

mind, 
Treasuring the look it cannot 
find, 
The words that are not heard again. 



The Danube to the Severn gave 

The darkened heart that beat no 

more ; 
They laid him by the pleasant 
shore, 
And in the hearing of the wave. 

There twice a day the Severn fills ; 
The salt sea-water passes by, 
And hushes half the babbling 
Wye, 

And makes a silence in the hills. 



The Wye is hush'd nor moved along, 
And hush'd my deepest grief of 

all, 
When fill'd with tears that can- 
not fall, 
I brim with sorrow drowning song. 

The tide flows down, the wave again 
Is vocal in its wooded walls ; 
My deeper anguish also falls, 

And I can speak a little then. 



The lesser griefs that may be said, 
That breathe a thousand tender 

vows, 
Are but as servants in a house 

Where lies the master newly dead ; 

Who speak their feeling as it is, 

And weep the fulness from the 

mind: 
" It will be hard," they say, " to 
find 
Another service such as this." 

My lighter moods are like to these, 
That out of words a comfort 

win ; 
But there are other griefs within, 
And tears that at their fountain 
freeze ; 

For by the hearth the children sit 
Cold in that atmosphere of 

Death, 
And scarce endure to draw the 
breath, 
Or like to noiseless phantoms flit : 

But open converse is there none, 
So much the vital spirits sink 
To see the vacant chair, and 
think, 
" How good ! how kind ! and he is 
gone." 



I sing to him that rests below, 

And, since the grasses round me 
wave, 



IN MEMORIAM. 



487 



I take the grasses of the grave, 
And make them pipes whereon to 
blow. 

The traveller hears me now and then, 
And sometimes harshly will he 

speak : 
" This fellow would make weak- 
ness weak, 
And melt the waxen hearts of men." 

Another answers, " Let him be, 

He loves to make parade of pain, 
That with his piping he may gain 

The praise that comes to constancy." 

A third is wroth : " Is this an hour 
For private sorrow's barren song, 
When more and more the people 
throng 

The chairs and thrones of civil power 'i 

" A time to sicken and to swoon, 

When Science reaches forth her 

arms 
To feel from world to world, and 
charms 
Her secret from the latest moon ? " 

Behold, ye speak an idle thing : 

Ye never knew the sacred dust : 
I do but sing because I must, 

And pipe but as the linnets sing : 

And one is glad ; her note is gay, 

For now her little ones have 

ranged; 
And one is sad; her note is 
changed, 
Because her brood is stol'n away. 



XXII. 

The path by which we twain did go, 
Which led by tracts that pleased 

us well, 
Thro' four sweet years arose and 
fell, 
From flower to flower, from snow to 
snow: 



And we with singing cheer'd the way, 
And, crown'd with all the season 

lent, 
From April on to April went, 

And glad at heart from May to May : 

But where the path we walk'd began 
To slant the fifth autumnal slope, 
As we descended following Hope, 

There sat the Shadow f ear'd of man ; 

Who broke our fair companionship, 
And spread his mantle dark and 

cold, 
And wrapt thee formless in the 
fold, 
And dull'd the murmur on thy lip, 

And bore thee where I could not see 
Nor follow, tho' I walk in haste, 
And think, that somewhere in the 
waste 

The Shadow sits and waits for me. 



Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut, 
Or breaking into song by fits, 
Alone, alone, to where he sits, 

The Shadow cloak'dfrom head to foot, 

Who keeps the keys of all the creeds, 
I wander, often falling lame, 
And looking back to whence I 
came, 

Or on to where the pathway leads ; 

And crying, How changed from where 
it ran 
Thro' lands where not a leaf was 

dumb ; 
But all the lavish hills would hum 
The murmur of a happy Pan : 

When each by turnswas guide to each, 
And Fancy light from Fancy 

caught, 
And Thought leapt out to wed 
with Thought 
Ere Thought could wed itself with 
Speech ; 



488 



IN MEMORIAM. 



And all we met was fair and good, 
And all was good that Time could 

bring, 
And all the secret of the Spring 

Moved in the chambers of the blood ; 

And many an old philosophy 

On Argive heights divinely sang, 
And round us all the thicket rang 

To many a flute of Arcady. 

XXIV. 

And was the day of my delight 
As pure and perfect as I say ? 
The very source and fount of Day 

Is dash'd with wandering isles of 
night. 

If all was good and fair we met, 

This earth had been the Paradise 
It never look'd to human eyes 

Since our first Sun arose and set. 

And is it that the haze of grief 

Makes former gladness loom so 

great 1 - 
The lowness of the present state, 

That sets the past in this relief 1 

Or that the past will always win 
A glory from its being far ; 
And orb into the perfect star 

We saw not, when we moved therein 1 

xxv. 
I know that this was life, — the track 
Whereon with equal feet we 

fared ; 
And then, as now, the day pre- 
pared 
The daily burden for the back. 

But this it was that made me move 
As light as carrier-birds in air ; 
I loved the weight I had to bear, 

Because it needed help of Love : 

Nor could I weary, heart or limb, 

When mighty Love would cleave 

in twain 
The lading of a single pain, 

And part it, giving half to him. 



Still onward winds the dreary way ; 
I with it ; for I long to prove 
No lapse of moons can canker 
Love, 

Whatever fickle tongues may say. 

And if that eye which watches guilt 
And goodness, and hath power 

to see 
Within the green the moulder'd 
tree, 
And towers fall'n as soon as built — 

Oh, if indeed that eye foresee 
Or see (in Him is no before) 
In more of life true life no more 

And Love the indifference to be, 

Then might I find, ere yet the morn 
Breaks hither over Indian seas, 
That shadow waiting with the 
keys, 

To shroud me from my proper scorn. 

XXVII. 

I envy not in any moods 

The captive void of noble rage, 
The linnet born within the cage, 

That never knew the summer woods : 

I envy not the beast that takes 

His license in the field of time, 
Unfetter'd by the sense of crime, 

To whom a conscience never wakes ; 

Nor, what may count itself as blest, 
The heart that never plighted 

troth 
But stagnates in the weeds of 
sloth; 
Nor any want-begotten rest. 

I hold it true, what'er befall ; 

I feel it, when I sorrow most ; 

'Tis better to have loved and lost 
Than never to have loved at all. 

XXVIII. 

The time draws near the birth of 
Christ : 
The moon is hid ; the night is still; 



IN MEMORIAM. 



489 



The Christmas bells from hill to 
hill 
Answer each other ir the mist. 

Four voices of four hamlets round, 
From far and near, on mead and 

moor, 
Swell out and fail, as if a door 

Were shut between me and the sound : 

Each voice four changes on the wind, 
That now dilate, and now de- 
crease, 
Peace and goodwill, goodwill and 
peace, 
Peace and goodwill, to all mankind. 

This year I slept and woke with pain, 
I almost wish'd no more to wake, 
And that my hold on life would 
break 

Before I heard those bells again : 

But they my troubled spirit rule, 

For theycontroll'd mewhenaboy; 
They bring me sorrow touch'd 
with joy, 

The merry merry bells of Yule. 



With such compelling cause to grieve 
As daily vexes household peace, 
And chains regret to his decease, 

How dare we keep our Christmas-eve ; 

Which brings no more a welcome* 
guest 
To enrich the threshold of the 

night 
With shower'd largess of delight 
In dance and song and game and jest 1 

Yet go, and while the holly boughs 
Entwine the cold baptismal font, 
Make one wreath more for Use 
and Wont, 

That guard the portals of the house; 

Old sisters of a day gone by, 

Gray nurses, loving nothing new ; 
Why should they miss their 
yearly due 
Before their time 1 They too will 
die. 



XXX. 

With trembling fingers did we weave 
The holly round the Christmas 

hearth ; 
A rainy cloud possess'd the earth, 

And sadly fell our Christmas-eve. 

At our old pastimes in the hall 

We gambol'd, making vain pre- 
tence 
Of gladness, with an awful sense 

Of one mute Shadow watching all. 

We paused : the winds were in the 
beech : 
We heard them sweep the winter 

land; 
And in a circle hand-in-hand 
Sat silent, looking each at each. 

Then echo-like our voices rang ; 

We sung, tho' every eye was dim, 
A merry song we sang with him 

Last year : impetuously we sang : 

We ceased : a gentler feeling crept 
Upon us : surely rest is meet : 
" They rest," we said, " their sleep 
is sweet," 

And silence follow'd, and we wept. 

Our voices took a higher range; 

Once more we sang : " They do 

not die 
Nor lose their mortal sympathy, 
Nor change to us, although they 
change ; 

" Rapt from the fickle and the frail 
With gather'd power, yet the 

same, 
Pierces the keen seraphic flame 

From orb to orb, from veil to veil." 

Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn, 
Draw forth the cheerful day from 

night : 
O Father, touch the east, and 
light 
The light that shone when Hope was 
born. 



490 



IN MEMORIAM. 



XXXI. 

When Lazarus left his chamel-cave, 
And home to Mary's house re- 

turn'd, 
Was this demanded— if he yearn'd 

To hear her weeping by his grave 1 

" Where wert thou, brother, those 
four days 1 " 
There lives no record of reply, 
Which telling what it is to die 

Had surely added praise to praise. 

From every house the neighbors met, 
The streets were fill'd with joyful 

sound, 
A solemn gladness even crown'd 

The purple brows of Olivet. 

Behold a man raised up by Christ ! 

The rest remaineth unreveal'd ; 

He told it not; or something 
seal'd 
The lips of that Evangelist. 

XXXII. 

Her eyes are homes of silent prayer, 
Nor other thought her mind ad- 
mits 
But, he was dead, and there he 
sits, 
And he that brought him back is 
there. 

Then one deep love doth supersede 
All other, when her ardent gaze 
Koves from the living brother's 
face, 

And rests upon the Life indeed. 

All subtle thought, all curious fears, 
Borne down by gladness so com- 
plete, 
She bows, she bathes the 
Saviour's feet 
With costly spikenard and with tears. 

Thrice blest whose lives are faithful 
prayers, 
Whose loves in higher love en- 
dure; 



What souls possess themselves sc 
pure, 
Or is their blessedness like theirs 1 



XXXIII. 

thou that after toil and storm 

Mayst seem to have reach'd a 

purer air, 
Whose faith has centre every- 
where, 
Nor cares to fix itself to form, 

Leave thou thy sister when she prays, 
Her early Heaven, her happy 

views ; 
Nor thou with shadow'd hint con- 
fuse 
A life that leads melodious days. 

Her faith thro' form is pure as thine, 
Her hands are quicker unto good : 
Oh, sacred be the flesh and blood 

To which she links a truth divine ! 

See thou, that countest reason ripe 
In holding by the law within, 
Thou fail not in a world of sin, 

And ev'n for want of such a type. 



My own dim life should teach me 

this, 
• That life shall live for evermore, 
Else earth is darkness at the core, 
And dust and ashes all that is ; 

This round of green, this orb of flame, 
Fantastic beauty; such as lurks 
In some wild Poet, when he works 

Without a conscience or an aim. 

What then were God to such as I ? 

'Twere hardly worth my while to 
choose 

Of things all mortal, or to use 
A little patience ere I die ; 

'Twere best at once to sink to peace, 
Like birds the charming serpent 
draws, 



IN MEMORIAM. 



491 



To drop head-foremost in the 
jaws 
Of vacant darkness and to cease. 



XXXV. 

Yet if some voice that man could 
trust 
Should murmur from the narrow 

house, 
" The cheeks drop in ; the body 
bows ; 
Man dies : nor is there hope in dust : " 

Might I not say ? " Yet even here, 
But for one hour, O Love, I strive 
To keep so sweet a thing alive : " 

But I should turn mine ears and hear 

The moanings of the homeless sea, 
The sound of streams that swift 

or slow 
Draw down iEonian hills, and 
sow 
The dust of continents to be ; 

And Love would answer with a sigh, 
"The sound of that forgetful 

shore 
"Will change my sweetness more 
and more, 
Half-dead to know that I shall die." 

() me, what profits it to put 

An idle case 1 If Death were 

seen 
At first as Death, Love had not 
been, 
Or been in narrowest working shut, 

Mere fellowship of sluggish moods, 
Or in his coarsest Satyr-shape 
Had bruised the herb and crush'd 
the grape, 

And bask'd and batten'd in the woods. 



Tho' truths in manhood darkly join, 
Deep-seated in our mystic frame, 
We yield all blessing to the name 

Of Him that made them current coin : 



For Wisdom dealt with mortal powers, 
Where truth in closest words shall 

fail, 
When truth embodied in a tale 

Shall enter in at lowly doors. 

And so the Word had breath, and 
wrought 
With human hands the creed of 

creeds 
In loveliness of perfect deeds, 
More strong than all poetic thought; 

Which he may read that binds the 
sheaf, 
Or builds the house, or digs the 

grave, 
And those wild eyes that watch 
the wave 
In roarings round the coral reef. 



Urania speaks with darken'd brow : 
"Thou pratest here where thou 

art least ; 
This faith has many a purer priest, 

And many an abler voice than thou. 

" Go down beside thy native rill, 
On thy Parnassus set thy feet, 
And hear thy laurel whisper sweet 

About the ledges of the hill." 

And my Melpomene replies, 

A touch of shame upon her cheek : 
" I am not worthy ev'n to speak 

Of thy prevailing mysteries ; 

" For I am but an earthly Muse, 
And owning but a little art 
To lull with song an aching heart, 

And render human love his dues ; 

" But brooding on the dear one dead, 
And all he said of things divine, 
(And dear to me as sacred wine 

To dying lips is all he said), 

" I murmur'd, as I came along, 

Of comfort clasp'd in truth re- 

veal'd ; 
And loiter'd in the master's field, 

And darken'd sanctities with song." 



492 



IN MEMORIAM. 



With weary steps I loiter on, 

Tho' always under alter'd skies 
The purple from the distance dies, 

My prospect and horizon gone. 

No joy the blowing season gives, 
The herald melodies of spring, 
But in the songs I love to sing 

A doubtful gleam of solace lives. 

If any care for what is here 

Survive in spirits render'd free, 
Then are these songs I sing of 
thee 

Not all ungrateful to thine ear. 

XXXIX. 

Old warder of these buried bones, 
And answering now my random 

stroke 
With fruitful cloud and living 
smoke, 
Dark yew, that graspest at the stones 

And dippest toward the dreamless 
head, 
To thee too comes the golden hour 
When flower is feeling after 
flower ; 
But Sorrow — fixt upon the dead, 

And darkening the dark graves of 
men, — 
What whisper'd from her lying 

lips? 
Thy gloom is kindled at the tips, 
And passes into gloom again. 



Could we forget the widow'd hour 
And look on Spirits breathed 

away, 
As on a maiden in the day 

When first she wears her orange- 
. flower ! 

When crown'd with blessing she doth 
rise 
To take her latest leave of home, 



And hopes and light regrets that 
come 
Make April of her tender eyes ; 

And doubtful joys the father move, 
And tears are on the mother's 

face, 
As parting with a long embrace 

She enters other realms of love ; 

Her office there to rear, to teach, 
Becoming as is meet and fit 
A link among the days, to knit 

The generations each with each ; 

And, doubtless, unto thee is given 
A life that bears immortal fruit 
In those great offices that suit 

The full-grown energies of heaven. 

Ay me, the difference I discern ! 

How often shall her old fireside 
Be cheer'd with tidings of the 
bride, 

How often she herself return, 

And tell them all they would have 
told, 
And bring her babe, and make 

her boast, 
Till even those that miss'd her 
most 
Shall count new things as dear as old : 

But thou and I have shaken hands, 
Till growing winters lay me low ; 
My paths are in the fields I know, 

And thine in undiscover'd lands. 



Thy spirit ere our fatal loss 

Did ever rise from high to higher ; 

As mounts the heavenward altar- 
fire, 
As flies the lighter thro* the gross. 

But thou art turn'd to something 
strange, 
And I have lost the links that 
bound 



IN MEMORIAM. 



493 



Thy changes ; here upon the 
ground, 
more partaker of thy change. 

I Jeep folly ! yet that this could be — 
That I could wing my will with 

might 
To leap the grades of life and 
light, 
And flash at once, my friend, to thee. 

For tho' my nature rarely yields 

To that vague fear implied in 

death; 
Nor shudders at the gulfs beneath, 

The howlings from forgotten fields ; 

Yet oft when sundown skirts the moor 
An inner trouble I behold, 
A spectral doubt which makes me 
cold, 

That I shall be thy mate no more, 

Tho' following with an upward mind 
The wonders that have come to 

thee, 
Thro' all the secular to-be, 

But evermore a life behind. 



I vex my heart with fancies dim : 

He still outstript me in the race ; 
It was but unity of place 

That made me dream I rank'd with 
him. 

And so may Place retain us still, 

And he the much-beloved again, 
A lord of large experience, train 

To riper growth the mind and will : 

And what delights can equal those 
That stir the spirit's inner deeps, 
When one that loves but knows 
not, reaps 
A truth from one that loves and 
knows 1 



If Sleep and Death be truly one, 
And every spirit's folded bloom 



Thro' all its intervital gloom 
Ii-iome long trance should slumber on; 

Unconscious of the sliding hour, 
Bare of the body, might it last, 
And silent traces of the past 

Be all the color of the flower : 

So then were nothing lost to man ; 
So that still garden of the souls 
In many a figured leaf enrolls 

The total world since life began ; 

And love will last as pure and whole 
As when he loved me here in 

Time, 
And at the spiritual prime 

Kewaken with the dawning soul. 

XLIV. 

How fares it with the happy dead ? 

For here the man is more and 
more; 

But he forgets the days before 
God shut the doorways of his head. 

The days have vanish'd, tone and tint, 
And yet perhaps the hoarding 

sense 
Gives out at times (he knows not 
whence) 
A little flash, a mystic hint ; 

And in the long harmonious years 
(If Death so taste Lethean 

springs), 
May some dim touch of earthly 
things 
Surprise thee ranging with thy peers. 

If such a dreamy touch should fall, 
turn thee round, resolve the 

doubt ; 
My guardian angel will speak out 

In that high place, and tell thee all. 



The baby new to earth and sky, 

What time his tender palm is prest 
Against the circle of the breast, 

Has never thought that " this is I: M 



494 



IN MEMORIAM, 



But as he grows he gathers much, 
And learns the u,se of " I," and 

" me," 
And finds " I am not what I see, 

And other than the things I touch." 

So rounds he to a separate mind 

From whence clear memory may 

begin, 
As thro' the frame that binds him 
in 
His isolation grows defined. 

This use may lie in blood and breath, 
Which else were fruitless of their 

due, 
Had man to learn himself anew 

Beyond the second birth of Death. 



We ranging down this lower track, 
The path we came by, thorn and 

flower, 
Is shadow'd by the growing hour, 

Lest life should fail in looking back. 

So be it : there no shade can last 

In that deep dawn behind the 

tomb, 
But clear from marge to marge 
shall bloom 
The eternal landscape of the past ; 

A lifelong tract of time reveal'd ; 

The fruitful hours of still increase ; 

Days order'd in a wealthy peace. 
And those five years its richest field. 

Love, thy province were not large, 
A bounded field, nor stretching 

far; 
Look also, Love, a brooding star, 

A rosy warmth from marge to marge. 

XLVII. 

That each, who seems a separate 
whole, 
Should move his rounds, and fus- 
ing all 
The skirts of self again, should 
fall 
Remerging in the general Soul, 



Is faith as vague as all unsweet : 
Eternal form shall still divide 
The eternal soul from all beside ; 

And I shall know him when we meet : 

And we shall sit at endless feast, 
Enjoying each the other's good: 
What vaster dream can hit the 
mood 

Of Love on earth ? He seeks at least 

Upon the last and sharpest height, 
Before the spirits fade away, 
Some landing-place, to clasp and 
say, 
" Farewell ! We lose ourselves in 
light." 

XLVIII. 

If these brief lays, of Sorrow born, 
Were taken to be such as closed 
Grave doubts and answers here 
proposed, 

Then these were such as men might 
. scorn: 

Her care is not to part and prove ; 
She takes, when harsher moods 

remit, 
What slender shade of doubt may 
flit, 
And makes it vassal unto love : 

And hence, indeed, she sports with 
words, 
But better serves a wholesome 

law, 
And holds it sin and shame to 
draw 
The deepest measure from the chords : 

Nor dare she trust a larger lay, 

But rather loosens from the lip 
Short swallow-flights of song, that 
dip 

Their wings in tears, and skim away. 

XLIX. 

From art, from nature, from the 
schools, 
Let random influences glance, 



IN MEMORIAM. 



495 



Like light in many ashiver'd lance 
That breaks about the dappled pools : 

The lightest wave of thought shall lisp, 
The fancy's tenderest eddy 

wreathe, 
The slightest air of song shall 
breathe 
To make the sullen surface crisp. 

And look thy look, and go thy way, 
But blame not thou the winds that 

make 
The seeming-wanton ripple break, 

The tender-pencil'd shadow play. 

Beneath all fancied hopes and fears 
Ay me, the sorrow deepens down, 
Whose muffled motions blindly 
drown 

The bases of my life in tears. 



Be near me when my light is low, 

When the blood creeps, and the 

nerves prick 
And tingle ; and the heart is sick, 

And all the wheels of Being slow. 

Be near me when the sensuous frame 
Is rack'd with pangs that conquer 

trust ■ 
And Time, a maniac scattering 
dust, 
And Life, a Fury slinging flame. 

Be near me when my faith is dry, 
And men the flies of latter spring, 
That lay their eggs, and sting 
and sing 

And weave their petty cells and die. 

Be near me when I fade away, 

To point the term of human strife, 
And on the low dark verge of life 

The twilight of eternal day. 



Do we indeed desire the dead 

Should still be near us at our side 1 



Is there no baseness we would 
hide ? • 
No inner vileness that we dread ? 

Shall he for whose applause I strove, 
I had such reverence for his 

blame, 
See with clear eye some hidden 
shame 
And I be lessen'd in his love ? 

I wrong the grave with fears untrue : 
Shall love be blamed for want of 

faith % 
There must be wisdom with great 
Death : 
The dead shall look me thro' and thro'. 

Be near us when we climb or fall : 
Ye watch, like God, the rolling 

hours 
With larger other eyes than ours, 

To make allowance for us all. 



I cannot love thee as I ought, 

For love reflects the thing b& 

loved; 
My words are only words, and 
moved 
Upon the topmost froth of thought. 

" Yet blame not thou my plaintive 
song/' 
The Spirit of true love replied ; 
" Thou canst not move me from 
thy side, 
Nor human frailty do me wrong. 

" What keeps a spirit wholly true 
To that ideal which he bears % 
What record ? not the sinless 
years 
That breathed beneath the Syrian 
blue: 

" So fret not, like an idle girl, 

That life is dash'd with flecks of 

sin. 
Abide : thy wealth is gather'd in, 
When Time hath sunder'd shell from 
pearl." 



496 



IN MEMORIAM. 



How many a father have I seen, 
A sober man, among his boys, 
Whose youth was full of foolish 
noise, 
Who wears his manhood hale and 
green : 

And dare we to this fancy give, 

That had the wild oat not been 

sown, 
The soil, left barren, scarce had 
grown 
The grain by which a man may live ? 

Or, if we held the doctrine sound 

For life outliving heats of youth, 
Yet who would preach it as a 
truth 

To those that eddy round and round ? 

Hold thou the good : define it well : 
For fear divine Philosophy 
Should push beyond her mark, 
and be 

Procuress to the Lords of Hell. 



Oh yet we trust that somehow good 
Will be the final goal of ill, 
To pangs of nature, sins of will, 

Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ; 

That nothing walks with aimless feet ; 
That not one life shall be de- 

stroy'd, 
Or cast as rubbish to the void, 
When God hath made the pile com- 
plete ; 

That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 
That not a moth with vain desire 
Is shrivell'd in a fruitless fire, 

Or but subserves another's gain. 

Behold, we know not anything ; 

I can but trust that good shall 
fall 

A.t last — far off — at last, to all, 
And every winter change to spring. 



So runs my dream ; but what am I ? 
An infant crying in the night : 
An infant crying for the light : 

And with no language but a cry. 



The wish, that of the living whole 
No life may fail beyond the grave, 
Derives it not from what we have 

The likest God within the soul % 

Are God and Nature then at strife, 
That Nature lends such evil 

dreams % 
So careful of the type she seems, 

So careless of the single life ; 

That I, considering everywhere 

Her secret meaning in her deeds, 
And finding that of fifty seeds 

She often brings but one to bear, 

I falter where I firmly trod, 

And falling with my weight of 
cares 

Upon the great world's altar-stairs 
That slope thro' darkness up to God, 

I stretch lame hands of faith, and 
grope, 
And gather dust and chaff, and 

call 
To what I feel is Lord of all, 
And faintly trust the larger hope. 



" So careful of the type % " but no. 
From scarped cliff and quarried 

stone 
She cries, " A thousand types are 
gone : 
I care for nothing, all shall go. 

" Thou makest thine appeal to me : 
I bring to life, I bring to death . 
The spirit does but mean the 
breath : 

I know no more." And he, shall he, 

Man, her last work, who seem'd so 
fair, 



IN MEMORIAM. 



497 



Such splendid purpose in his eyes, 
Who roll'd the psalm to wintry 

skies, 
Who built him fanes of fruitless 

prayer, 

Who trusted God was love indeed 
And love Creation's final law — 
Tho' Nature, red in tooth and 
claw 
With ravine, shriek'd against his 
creed — 

Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills, 
Who battled for the True, the 

Just, 
Be blown about the desert dust, 

Or seal'd within the iron hills 1 

No more ? A monster then, a dream, 
A discord. Dragons of the 

prime, 
That tare each other in their 
slime, 
Were mellow music match'd with him. 

life as futile, then, as frail ! 

for thy voice to soothe and 
bless ! 

What hope of answer, or redress ? 
Behind the veil, behind the veil. 



Peace ; come away : the song of woe 
Is after all an earthly song: 
Peace ; come away : we do him 
wrong 

To sing so wildly : let us go. 

Come ; let us go : your cheeks are 
pale; 
But half my life I leave behind : 
Methinks my friend is richly 
shrined ; 
But I shall pass ; my work will fail. 

Yet in these ears, till hearing dies, 
One set slow bell will seem to toll 
The passing of the sweetest soul 

That ever look'd with human eyes. 



I hear it now, and o'er and o'er, 
Eternal greetings to the dead ; 
And " Ave, Ave, Ave," said, 

" Adieu, adieu " for evermore. 

LVIII. 

In those sad words I took farewell : 
Like echoes in sepulchral halls, 
As drop by drop the water falls 

In vaults and catacombs, they fell ; 

And, falling, idly broke the peace 
Of hearts that beat from day to 

day, 
Half-conscious of their dying 
clay, 
And those cold crypts where they 
shall cease. 

The high Muse answer'd : " Wherefore 
grieve 
Thy brethren with a fruitless 

tear* 
Abide a little longer here, 
And thou shalt take a nobler leave." 

LIX. 

O Sorrow, wilt thou live with me 
No casual mistress, but a wife, 
My bosom-friend and half of 
life; 

As I confess it needs must be ; 

O Sorrow, wilt thou rule my blood, 
Be sometimes lovely like a bride, 
And put thy harsher moods aside, 

If thou wilt have me wise and good. 

My centred passion cannot move, 
Nor will it lessen from to-day ; 
But I'll have leave at times to 
play 

As with the creature of my love ; 

And set thee forth, for thou art mine, 
With so much hope for years to 

come, 
That, howsoe'er I know thee, some 
Could hardly tell what name were 
thine. 



498 



IN MEM0R1AM. 



He past ; a soul of nobler tone : 

My spirit loved and loves him 

yet, 

Like some poor girl whose heart 
is set 
On one whose rank exceeds her own. 

He mixing with his proper sphere, 
She finds the baseness of her lot, 
Half jealous of she knows not 
what, 

And envying all that meet him there. 

The little village looks forlorn ; 

She sighs amid her narrow days, 
Moving about the household 
ways, 
In that dark house where she was 
born. 

The foolish neighbors come and go, 
And tease her till the day draws 

by: 
At night she weeps, " How vain 
am I ! 
How should he love a thing so low % " 



If, in thy second state sublime, 

Thy ransom'd reason change 

replies 
With all the circle of the wise, 

The perfect flower of human time ; 

And if thou cast thine eyes below, 
How dimly character'd and slight, 
How dwarf 'd a growth of cold and 
night, 
How blanch d with darkness must I 
grow! 

Yet turn thee to the doubtful shore, 
Where thy first form was made a 

man ; 
I loved thee, Spirit, and love, nor 
can 
The soul of Shakspeare love thee more. 



LXII. 

Tho' if an eye that's downward cast 
Could make thee somewhat blench 

or fail, 
Then be my love an idle tale, 

And fading legend of the past ; 

And thou, as one that once declined, 
When he was little more than boy, 
On some unworthy heart with joy, 

But lives to wed an equal mind ; 

And breathes a novel world, the while 
His other passion wholly dies, 
Or in the light of deeper eyes 

Is matter for a flying smile. 



Yet pity for a horse o'er-driven, 

And love in which my hound has 

part, 
Can hang no weight upon my 
heart 
In its assumptions up to heaven ; 

And I am so much more than these, 
As thou, perchance, art more than 

I, 
And yet I spare them sympathy, 

And I would set their pains at ease. 

So mayst thou watch me where I weep, 
As, unto vaster motions bound, 
The circuits of thine orbit round 

A higher height, a deeper deep. 

LXIV. 

Dost thou look back on what hath 
been, 
As some divinely gifted man, 
Whose life in low estate began 

And on a simple village green ; 

Who breaks his birth's invidious bar, 
And grasps the skirts of happy 

chance, 
And breasts the blows of circum? 
stance, 
And grapples with his evil star : 



IN MEMORIAM. 



499 



Who makes by force his merit known 
And lives to clutch the golden 

keys, 
To mould a mighty state's decrees, 

And shape the whisper of the throne ; 

And moving up from high to higher, 
Becomes on Fortune's crowning 

slope 
The pillar of a people's hope, 

The centre of a world's desire ; 

Yet feels, as in a pensive dream, 

When all his active powers are 

still, 
A distant dearnoss in the hill, 

A secret sweetness in the stream, 

The limit of his narrower fate, 

While yet beside its vocal springs 
He play 'd at counsellors and kings, 

With one that was his earliest mate ; 

Who ploughs with pain his native lea 
And reaps the labor of his hands, 
Or in the furrow musing stands ; 

" Does my old friend remember me ? " 



Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt; 
I lull a fancy trouble-tost 
With " Love's too precious to be 
lost, 

A little grain shall not be spilt." 

And in that solace can I sing, 

Till out of painful phases wrought 
There flutters up a happy thought, 

Self-balanced on a lightsome wing : 

Since we deserved the name of friends, 
And thine effect so lives in me, 
A part of mine may live in thee 

And move thee on to noble ends. 



You thought my heart too far diseased ; 
You wonder when my fancies play 
To find me gay among the gay, 

Like one with any trifle pleased. 



The shade by which my life was crost, 
Which makes a desert in the mind, 
Has made me kindly with my kind, 

And like to him whose sight is lost ; 

Whose feet are guided thro' the land, 
Whose jest among his friends is 

free, 
Who takes the children on his 
knee, 
And winds their curls about his hand : 

He plays with threads, he beats his 
chair 
For pastime, dreaming of the sky, 
His inner day can never die, 

His night of loss is always there. 



When on my bed the moonlight falls, 
I know that in thy place of rest 
By that broad water of the west, 

There comes a glory on the walls : 

Thy marble bright in dark appears, 
As slowly steals a silver flame 
Along the letters of thy name, 

And o'er the number of thy years. 

The mystic glory swims away ; 

From off my bed the moonlight 
dies ; 

And closing eaves of wearied eyes 
I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray : 

And then I know the mist is drawn 
A lucid veil from coast to coast, 
And in the dark church like a 
ghost 

Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn. 



When in the down I sink my head, 
Sleep, Death's twin-brother, times 

my breath ; 
Sleep, Death's twin-brother, knows 
not Death, 
Nor can I dream of thee as dead : 

I walk as ere I walk'd forlorn, 

When all our path was fresh with 
dew, 



500 



IN MEMORIAM. 



And all the bugle breezes blew 
Reveillee to the breaking morn. 

But what is this ? I turn about, 
I find a trouble in thine eye, 
Which makes me sad I know not 
why, 

Nor can my dream resolve the doubt : 

But ere the lark hath left the lea 
I wake, and I discern the truth ; 
It is the trouble of my youth * 

That foolish sleep transfers to thee. 



I dream'd there would be Spring no 
more, 
That Nature's ancient power was 

lost: 
The streets were black with smoke 
and frost, 
They chatter'd trifles at the door *. 

I wander'd from the noisy town, 

I found a wood with thorny 

boughs : 
I took the thorns to bind my 
brows, 
I wore them like a civic crown : 

I met with scoffs, I met with scorns 
From youth and babe and hoary 

hairs : 
They call'd me in the public 
squares 
The fool that wears a crown of thorns ; 

They calPd me fool, they call'd me 
child : 
I found an angel of the night ; 
The voice was low, the look was 
bright ; 
He look'd upon my crown and smiled : 

He reach'd the glory of a hand, 

That seem'd to touch it into leaf : 
The voice was not the voice of 
grief, 

The words were hard to understand. 



I cannot see the features right, 

When on the gloom I strive to 

paint 
The face I know; the hues are 
faint 
And mix with hollow masks of night ; 

Cloud-towers by ghostly masons 

wrought, 

A gulf that ever shuts and gapes, 

A hand that points, and palled 

shapes 

In shadowy thoroughfares of thought ; 

And crowds that stream from yawn- 
ing doors, 
And shoals of pucker'd faces 

drive ; 
Dark bulks that tumble half alive, 
And lazy lengths on boundless shores ; 

Till all at once beyond the will 
I hear a wizard music roll, 
And thro' a lattice on the soul 

Looks thy fair face and makes it still. 



Sleep, kinsman thou to death and 
trance 
And madness, thou hast forged 

at last 
A night-long Present of the Past 
In which we went thro' summer 
France. 

Hadst thou such credit with the soul 1 
Then bring an opiate trebly 

strong, 
Drug down the blindfold sense of 
wrong 
That so my pleasure may be whole ; 

While now we talk as once we talk'd 
Of men and minds, the dust of 

change, 
The days that grow to something 
strange, 
In walking as of old we walk'd 



IN MEMORIAM. 



501 



Beside the river's wooded reach, 

The fortress, and the mountain 

ridge, 
The cataract flashing from the 
bridge, 
The breaker breaking on the beach. 



Eisest thou thus, dim dawn, again, 
And howlest, issuing out of night, 
With blasts that blow the poplar 
white, 
And lash with storm the streaming 
pane? 

Day, when my crown'd estate begun 
To pine in that reverse of doom, 
Which sicken'd every living 
bloom, 

And blurr'd the splendor of the sun ; 

Who usherest in the dolorous hour 
With thy quick tears that make 

the rose 
Pull sideways, and the daisy close 

Her crimson fringes to the shower ; 

Who might'st have heaved a windless 
flame 
Up the deep East, or, whispering, 

play'd 
A chequer-work of beam and 
shade 
Along the hills, yet look'd the same. 

As wan, as chill, as wild as now ; 

Day, mark'd as with some hideous 

crime, 
When the dark hand struck down 
thro' time, 
And cancell'd nature's best : but thou, 

Lift as thou may'st thy burthen'd 
brows 
Thro' clouds that drench the 

morning star, 
And whirl the ungarner'd sheaf 
afar, 
And sow the sky with flying boughs, 



And up thy vault with roaring sound 
Climb thy thick noon, disastrous 

day; 
Touch thy dull goal of joyless 

And hide thy shame beneath the 
ground. 



So many worlds, so much to do, 

So little done, such things to be, 
How know I what had need of 
thee, 

For thou wert strong as thou wert true? 

The fame is quench'd that I foresaw, 
The head hath miss'd an earthly 

wreath : 
I curse not nature, no, nor death ; 

For nothing is that errs from law. 

We pass ; the path that each man trod 
Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds : 
What fame is left for human deeds 

In endless age ? It rests with God. 

j O hollow wraith of dying fame, 

Fade wholly, while the soul 



exults, 

And self-infolds the large results 
Of force that would have forged a 
name. 

LXXIV. 

As sometimes in a dead man's face, 
To those that watch it more and 

more, 
A likeness, hardly seen before, 

Comes out — to some one of his race: 

So, dearest, now thy brows are cold, 
I see thee what thou art, and 

know 
Thy likeness to the wise below, 

Thy kindred with the great of old. 

But there is more than I can see, 
And what I see I leave unsaid, 
Nor speak it, knowing Death has 
made 

His darkness beautiful with thee. 



502 



IN MEMORIAM. 



I leave thy praises unexpress'd 

In verse that brings myself relief, 
And by the measure of my grief 

I leave thy greatness to be guess'd ; 

What practice howsoe'er expert 

In fitting aptest words to things, 
Or voice the richest-toned that 
sings, 

Hath power to give thee as thou wert ? 

I care not in these fading days 

To raise a cry that lasts not long, 
And round thee with the breeze 
of song 

To stir a little dust of praise. 

Thy leaf has perish'd in the green, 
And, while we breathe beneath the 

sun, 
The world which credits what is 
done 
Is cold to all that might have been. 

So here shall silence guard thy fame ; 

But somewhere, out of human 
view, 

Whate'er thy hands are set to do 
Is wrought with tumult of acclaim. 

LXXVI. 

Take wings of fancy, and ascend, 
And in a moment set thy face 
Where all the starry heavens of 
space 

Are sharpen'd to a needle's end ; 

Take wings of foresight ; lighten thro' 
The secular abyss to come, 
And lo, thy deepest lays are dumb 

Before the mouldering of a yew ; 

And if the matin songs, that woke 
The darkness of our planet, last, 
Thine own shall wither in the vast, 

Ere half the lifetime of an oak. 

Ere these have clothed their branchy 
bowers 
With fifty Mays, thy songs are 
vain: 



And what are they when these 
remain 
The ruin'd shells of hollow towers J 



What hope is here for modern rhyme 
To him, who turns a musing eye 
On songs, and deeds, and lives, 
that lie 

Foreshortened in the tract of time ? 

These mortal lullabies of pain 

May bind a book, may line a box, 
May serve to curl a maiden's 
locks ; 

Or when a thousand moons shall wane 

A man upon a stall may find, 

And, passing, turn the page that 

tells 
A grief, then changed to some- 
thing else, 
Sung by a long-forgotten mind. 

But what of that ? My darken'd ways 
Shall ring with music all the same : 
To breathe my loss is more than 
fame, 

To utter love more sweet than praise. 



Again at Christmas did we weave 

The holly round the Christmas 

hearth ; 
The silent snow possess'd the 
earth, 
And calmly fell our Christmas-eve: 

The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost, 
No wing of wind the region swept, 
But over all things brooding slept 

The quiet sense of something lost. 

As in the winters left behind, 

Again our ancient games had 

place, 
The mimic picture's breathing 
grace, 
And dance and song and hoodman- 
blind. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



503 



Who show'd a token of distress ? 

No single tear, no mark of pain : 
O sorrow, then can sorrow wane ? 

O grief, can grief be changed to less ? 

last regret, regret can die ! 

No — mixt with all this mystic 
frame, 

Her deep relations are the same, 
But with long use her tears are dry. 



" More than my brothers are to me," — 
Let this not vex thee, noble heart ! 
I know thee of what force thou 
art 

To hold the costliest love in fee. 

But thou and I are one in kind, 

As moulded like in Nature's mint; 
And hill and wood and field did 
print 

The same sweet forms in either mind. 

For us the same cold streamlet curPd 
Thro' all his eddying coves ; the 

same 
All winds that roam the twilight 
came 
In whispers of the beauteous world. 

At one dear knee we proffer'd vows, 
One lesson from one book we 

learn'd, 
Ere childhood's flaxen ringlet 
turn'd 
To black and brown on kindred brows. 

And so my wealth resembles thine, 
But he was rich where I was poor, 
And he supplied my want the more 

As his unlikeness fitted mine. 



If any vague desire should rise, 

That holy Death ere Arthur died 
Had moved me kindly from his 
side, 

And dropt the dust on tearless eyes ; 



Then fancy shapes, as fancy can, 

The grief my loss in him had 

wrought, 
A grief as deep as life or thought, 

But stay'd in peace with God and man. 

I make a picture in the brain ; 

I hear the sentence that he speaks ; 

He bears the burthen of the weeks 
But turns his burthen into gain. 

His credit thus shall set me free ; 

And, influence-rich to soothe and 
save, 

Unused example from the grave 
Reach out dead hands to comfort me. 



LXXXI. 

Could I have said while he was here, 
" My love shall now no further 

range ; 
There cannot come a mellower 
change, 
For now is love mature in ear." 

Love, then, had hope of richer store s 
What end is here to my com- 
plaint 1 
This haunting whisper makes me 
faint, 
" More years had made me love thee 
more." 

But Death returns an answer sweet : 
" My sudden frost was sudden 

gain, 
And gave all ripeness to the grain, 

It might have drawn from after-heat." 



I wage not any feud with Death 

For changes wrought on form and 

face ; 
No lower life that earth's embrace 
May breed with him, can fright my 
faith. 

Eternal process moving on, 

From state to state the spirit 
walks ; 



504 



IN MEMORIAM. 



And these are but the shatter'd 
stalks, 
Or ruin'd chrysalis of one. 

Nor blame I Death, because he bare 
The use of virtue out of earth : 
I know transplanted human worth 

Will bloom to profit, otherwhere. 

For this alone on Death I Avreak 

The wrath that garners in my 

heart ; 
He put our lives so far apart 

We cannot hear each other speak. 



Dip down upon the northern shore, 
O sweet new-year delaying long ; 
Thou doest expectant nature 
wrong ; 

Delaying long, delay no more. 

What stays thee from the clouded 
noons, 
Thy sweetness from its proper 

place ? 
Can trouble live with April days, 
Or sadness in the summer moons 1 

Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire, 
The little speedwell's darling blue, 
Deep tulips dash'd with fiery dew, 

Laburnums, dropping- wells of fire. 

thou, new-year, delaying long, 

Delayest the sorrow in my blood, 

That longs to burst a frozen bud 

And flood a fresher throat with song. 

LXXXIV. 

When I contemplate all alone 

The life that had been thine below, 
And fix my thoughts on all the 
glow 
To which thy crescent would have 
grown ; 

1 see thee sitting crown' d with good, 

A central warmth diffusing bliss 
In glance and smile, and clasp 
and kiss, 
On all the branches of thy blood ; 



Thy blood, my friend, and partly mine; 
For now the clay was drawing on, 
When thou should'st link thy life 
with one 

Of mine own house, and boys of thine 

Had babbled " Uncle " on my knee : 
But that remorseless iron hour 
Made cypress of her orange flower, 

Despair of Hope, and earth of thee. 

I seem to meet their least desire, 

To clap their cheeks, to call them 

mine. 
I see their unborn faces shine 

Beside the never-lighted fire. 

I see myself an honor'd guest, 

Thy partner in the flowery walk 
Of letters, genial table-talk, 

Or deep dispute, and graceful jest ; 

While now thy prosperous labor fills 
The lips of men with honest praise, 
And sun by sun the happy days 

Descend below the golden hills 

With promise of a morn as fair ; 

And all the train of bounteous 

hours 
Conduct by paths of growing 
powers, 
To reverence and the silver hair ; 

Till slowly worn her earthly robe, 

Her lavish mission richly 

wrought, 
Leaving great legacies of thought, 
Thy spirit should fail from off the 
globe ; 

What time mine own might also flee, 
As link'd with thine in love and 

fate, 
And, hovering o'er the dolorous 
strait 
To the other shore, involved in thee, 

Arrive at last the blessed goal, 

And He that died in Holy Land 
Would reach us out the shining 
hand, 

And take us as a single soul. 






IN MEMORIAM. 



505 



What reed was that on which I leant ? 
Ah, backward fancy, wherefore 

wake 
The old bitterness again, and 
break 
The low beginnings of content. 

LXXXV. 

This truth came borne with bier and 
pall. 
I felt it, when I sorrowed most, 
'Tis better to have loved and lost, 

Than never to have loved at all 

O true in word, and tried in deed, 
Demanding, so to bring relief 
To this which is our common 
grief, 

What kind of life is that I lead ; 

And whether trust in things above 
Be dimm'd of sorrow, or sustain' d ; 
And whether love for him have 
drain d 

My capabilities of love ; 

Your words have virtue such as draws 
A faithful answer from the 

breast, 
Thro' light reproaches, half ex- 
prest, 
And loyal unto kindly laws. 

My blood an even tenor kept, 

Till on mine ear this message 

falls, 
That in Vienna's fatal walls 

God's finger touch'd him, and he slept. 

The great Intelligences fair 

That range above our mortal 

state, 
In circle round the blessed gate, 
Received and gave him welcome 
there ; 

And led him thro' the blissful climes, 
And show'd him in the fountain 

fresh 
All knowledge that the sons of 
flesh 
Shall gather in the cycled times. 



But I remain'd, whose hopes were dim, 
Whose life, whose thoughts were 

little worth, 
To wander on a darken'd earth, 
Where all things round me breathed 
of him. 

O friendship, equal-poised control, 
O heart, with kindliest motion 
warm, 

sacred essence, other form, 

solemn ghost, O crowned soul ! 

Yet none could better know than I, 
How much of act at human hands 
The sense of human will demands 

By which we dare to live or die. 

Whatever way my days decline, 

1 felt and feel, tho' left alone, 
His being working in mine own, 

The footsteps of his life in mine ; 

A life that all the Muses deck'd 

With gifts of grace, that might 

express 
All-comprehensive tenderness, 

All-subtilizing intellect : 

And so my passion hath not swerved 
To works of weakness, but I find 
An image comforting the mind, 

And in my grief a strength reserved. 

Likewise the imaginative woe, 

That loved to handle spiritual 

strife, 
Diffused the shock thro' all my 
life, 
But in the present broke the blow. 

My pulses therefore beat again 

For other friends that once I met ; 
Nor can it suit me to forget 

The mighty hopes that make us men. 

1 woo your love : I count it crime 

To mourn for any overmuch ; 
I, the divided half of such 
A friendship as had master'd Time ; 



506 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Which masters Time indeed, and is 
Eternal, separate from fears : 
The ail-assuming months and 
years 

Can take no part away from this : 

But Summer on the steaming floods, 
And Spring that swells the nar- 
row brooks, 
And Autumn, with a noise of 
rooks, 
That gather in the waning woods, 

And every pulse of wind and wave 
Recalls, in change of light or 

gloom, 
My old affection of the tomb, 

And my prime passion in the grave : 

My old affection of the tomb, 

A part of stillness, yearns to 



"Arise, and get thee forth and 
seek 
A friendship for the years to come. 

" I watch thee from the quiet shore ; 

Thy spirit up to mine can reach ; 

But in dear words of human 
speech 
We two communicate no more." 

And I, " Can clouds of nature stain 
The starry clearness of the free ? 
How is it 1 Canst thou feel for 
me 

Some painless sympathy with pain ? " 

And lightly does the whisper fall ; 

" 'Tis hard for thee to fathom 
this ; 

I triumph in conclusive bliss, 
And that serene result of all." 

So hold I commerce with the dead ; 
Or so methinks the dead would 

say; 
Or so shall grief with symbols 
play 
And pining life be fancy-fed. 



Now looking to some settled end, 

That these things pass, and I shall 

prove 
A meeting somewhere, love with 
love, 
I crave your pardon, O my friend ; 

If not so fresh, with love as true, 
I, clasping brother-hands, aver 
I could not, if I would, transfer 

The whole I felt for him to you. 

For which be they that hold apart 
The promise of the golden hours ? 
First love, first friendship, equal 
powers, 

That marry with the virgin heart. 

Still mine, that cannot but deplore, 
That beats within a lonely place, 
That yet remembers his embrace, 

But at his footstep leaps no more, 

My heart, tho' widow'd, may not rest 
Quite in the love of what is gone, 
But seeks to beat in time with one 

That warms another living breast. 

Ah, take the imperfect gift I bring, 
Knowing the primrose yet is dear, 
The primrose of the later year, 

As not unlike to that of Spring. 



Sweet after showers, ambrosial air, 
That rollest from the gorgeous 

gloom 
Of evening over brake and bloom 

And meadow, slowly breathing bare 

The round of space, and rapt below 
Thro' all the dewy-tassell'd wood, 
And shadowing down the horned 
flood 

In ripples, fan my brows and blow 

The fever from my cheek, and sigh 
The full new life that feeds thy 

breath 
Throughout my frame, till Doubt 
and Death, 
111 brethren, let the fancy fly 



IN MEMORIAM 



50* 



From belt to belt of crimson seas 

On leagues of odor streaming far, 
To where in yonder orient star 

A hundred spirits whisper "Peace." 



I past beside the reverend walls 

In which of old I wore the gown; 
I roved at random thro' the town, 

And saw the tumult of the halls ; 

And heard once more in college fanes 
The storm their high-built organs 

make, 
And thunder-music, rolling, shake 

The prophet blazon'd on the panes ; 

And caught once more the distant 
shout, 
The measured pulse of racing 

oar 8 
Among the willows ; paced the 
shores 
And many a bridge, and all about 

The same gray flats again, and felt 
The same, but not the same ; and 

last 
Up that long walk of limes I past 

To see the rooms in which he dwelt. 

Another name was on the door : 
I linger'd ; all within was noise 
Of songs, and claiming hands, 
and boys 
That crash'd the glass and beat the 
floor ; 

Where once we held debate, a band 
Of youthful friends, on mind and 

art, 
And labor, and the changing mart, 

And all the framework of the land ; 

When one would aim an arrow fair, 
But send it slackly from the 

string ; 
And one would pierce an outer 
ring, 
And one an inner, here and there ; 



And last the master-bowman, he, 

Would cleave the mark. A wil- 
ling ear 
We lent him. Who, but hung to 
hear 
The rapt oration flowing free 

From point to point, with power and 
grace 
And music in the bounds of law, 
To those conclusions when we 
saw 
The God within him light his face, 

And seem to lift the* form, and glow 
In azure orbits heavenly-wise ; 
And over those ethereal eyes 

The bar of Michael Angelo. 



Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet, 
Rings Eden thro' the budded 
quicks, 

tell me where the senses mix, 
O tell me where the passions meet, 

Whence radiate ' fierce extremes em- 
ploy 
Thy spirits in the darkening leaf, 
And in the midmost heart of 
grief 
Thy passion clasps a secret joy ; 

And I — my harp would prelude 
woe — 

1 cannot all command the strings ; 
The glory of the sum of things 

Will flash along the chords and go. 

LXXXIX. 

Witch-elms that counterchange the 
floor 
Of this flat lawn with dusk and 

bright ; 
And thou, with all thy breadth 
and height 
Of foliage, towering sycamore ; 

How often, hither wandering down, 
My Arthur found your shadows 
fair, 



508 



IN MEMORIAM. 



And shook to all the liberal air 
The dust and din and steam of town : 

He brought an eye for all he saw ; 

He mixt in all our simple sports ; 

They pleased him, fresh from 
brawling courts 
And dusty purlieus of the law. 

joy to him in this retreat, 

Immantled in ambrosial dark, 
To drink the cooler air, and mark 

The landscape winking thro' the heat : 

O sound to rout the brood of cares, 
The sweep of scythe in morning 

dew, 
The gust that round the garden 
flew, 
And tumbled half the mellowing 
pears ! 

O bliss, when all in circle drawn 

About him, heart and ear were fed 
To hear him, as he lay and read 

The Tuscan poets on the lawn : 

Or in the all-golden afternoon 

A guest, or happy sister, sung, 
Or here she brought the harp and 
flung 

A ballad to the brightening moon : 

Nor less it pleased in livelier moods, 
Beyond the bounding hill to stray, 
And break the lifelong summer 
day 

With banquet in the distant woods ; 

Whereat we glanced from theme to 
theme, 
Discuss'd the books to love or 

hate, 
Or touch'd the changes of the 
state, 
Or threaded some Socratic dream ; 

But if I praised the busy town, 

He loved to rail against it still, 
Eor "ground in yonder social 
mill 

We rub each other's angles down, 



" And merge " he said " in form and 
gloss 
The picturesque of man and 

man." 
We talk'd: the stream beneath 
us ran, 
The wine-flask lying couch'd in moss. 

Or cool'd within the glooming wave ; 
And last, returning from afar, 
Before the crimson-circled star 

Had fallen into her father's grave, 

And brushing ankle-deep in flowers , 
We heard behind the woodbine 

veil 
The milk that bubbled in the pail, 

And buzzings of the honied hours. 



He tasted love with half his mind, 
Nor ever drank the inviolate 

spring 
Where nighest heaven, who first 
could fling 
This bitter seed among mankind ; 

That could the dead, whose dying 
eyes 
Were closed with wail, resume 

their life, 
They would but find in child and 
wife 
An iron welcome when they rise : 

'Twas well, indeed, when warm with 
wine, 
To pledge them with a kindly 

tear, 
To talk them o'er, to wish them 
here, 
To count their memories half divine ; 

But if they came who past away, 

Behold their brides in other 

hands ; 
The hard heir strides about their 
lands, 
And will not yield them for a day. 

Yea, tho' their sons were none of 
these, 



IN MEMORIAM. 



509 



Not less the yet-loved sire would | 

make 
Confusion worse than death, and 
shake 
The pillars of domestic peace. 

Ah dear, but come thou back to me: 
Whatever change the years have 

wrought, 
I find not yet one lonely thought 

That cries against my wish for thee. 



When rosy plumelets tuft the larch, 
And rarely pipes the mounted 

thrush ; 
Or underneath the barren bush 

Flits by the sea-blue bird of March ; 

Come, wear the form by which I 
know 
Thy spirit in time among thy 

peers ; 
The hope of unaccomplish'd years 
Be large and lucid round thy brow. 

When summer's hourly-mellowing 
change 
May breathe, with many roses 

sweet, 
Upon the thousand waves of 
wheat, 
That ripple round the lonely grange ; 

Come : not in watches of the night, 
But where the sunbeam broodeth 

warm, 
Come, beauteous in thine after 
form, 
And like a finer light in light. 

xcn. 

If any vision should reveal 

Thy likeness, I might count it 
vain 

As but the canker of the brain ; 
Yea, tho' it spake and made appeal 

To chances where our lots were cast 
Together in the days behind, 
I might but say, I hear a wind 

Of memory murmuring the past. 



Yea, tho' it spake and bared to view 
A fact within the coming year ; 
And tho' the months, revolving 
near, 
Should prove the phantom-warning 
true, 

They might not seem thy prophecies, 
But spiritual presentiments, 
And such refraction of events 

As often rises ere they rise. 



I shall not see thee. Dare I say 
No spirit ever brake the band 
That stays him from the native 
land 
Where first he walk'd when claspt in 
clay? 

No visual shade of some one lost, 

But he, the Spirit himself, may 

come 
Where all the nerve of sense is 
numb; 
Spirit to Spirit, Ghost to Ghost. 

O, therefore from thy sightless range 
With gods in unconjectured bliss, 
0, from the distance of the abyss 

Of tenfold-complicated change, 

Descend, and touch, and enter; hear 
The wish too strong for words to 

name ; 
That in this blindness of the 
frame 
My Ghost may feel that thine is near. 



How pure at heart and sound in head, 
With what divine affections bold 
Should be the man whose thought 
would hold 

An hour's communion with the dead. 

In vain shalt thou, or any, call 

The spirits from their golden day, 
Except, like them, thou too canst 
say, 

My spirit is at peace with all. 



510 



IN MEMORIAM. 



They haunt the silence of the breast, 
Imaginations calm and fair, 
The memory like a cloudless air, 

The conscience as a sea at rest : 

But when the heart is full of din, 

And doubt beside the portal waits, 
They can but listen at the gates, 

And hear the household jar within. 



By night we linger'd on the lawn, 

For underfoot the herb was dry ; 
And genial warmth ; and o'er the 
sky 

The silvery haze of summer drawn; 

And calm that let the tapers burn 
Unwavering: not a cricket chirr'd: 
The brook alone far-off was heard, 

And on the board the fluttering urn : 

And bats went round in fragrant skies, 
And wheel'd or lit the filmy 

shapes 
That haunt the dusk, with ermine 
capes 
And woolly breasts and beaded eyes ; 

While now we sang old songs that 
peal'd 
From knoll to knoll, where, 

couch'd at ease, 
The white kine glimmer'd, and 
the trees 
Laid their dark arms about the field. 



But when those others, one by one, 
Withdrew themselves from me 

and night, 
And in the house light after light 

Went out, and I was all alone, 

A hunger seized my heart ; I read 
Of that glad year which once had 

been, 
In those fall'n leaves which kept 
their green, 
The noble letters of the dead : 



And strangely on the silence broke 
The silent-speaking words, and 

strange 
Was love's dumb cry defying 
change 
To test his worth ; and strangely spoke 

The faith, the vigor, bold to dwell 
On doubts that drive the coward 

back, 
And keen thro' wordy snares to 
track 
Suggestion to her inmost cell. 

So word by word, and line by line, 
The dead man touch'd me from 

the past, 
And all at once it seem'd at last 

The living soul was flash'd on mine, 

And mine in this was wound, and 
whirl'd 
About empyreal heights of 

thought, 
And came on that which is, and 
caught 
The deep pulsations of the world, 

iEonian music measuring out 

The steps of Time — the shocks 

of Chance — 
The blows of Death. At length 
my trance 
Was cancell'd, stricken thro' with 
doubt. 

Vague words ! but ah, how hard to 
frame 
In matter-moulded forms .of 

speech, 
Or ev'n for intellect to reach 
Thro' memory that which I became : 

Till now the doubtful dusk reveal'd 
The knolls once more where, 

couch'd at ease, 
The white kine glimmer'd, and 
the trees 
Laid their dark arms about the field : 

And suck'd from out the distant gloom 
A breeze began to tremble o'er 
The large leaves of the sycamore, 

And fluctuate all the still perfume, 



IN MEMORIAM. 



511 



And gathering freshlier overhead, 
Rock'd the full-foliaged elms, 

and swung 
The heavy-folded rose, and flung 

The lilies to and fro, and said 

"The dawn, the dawn," and died 
away ; 

And East and West, without a 

breath, 
Mixt their dim lights, like life 

and death, 
To broaden into boundless day. 



You say, but with no touch of scorn, 
Sweet-hearted, you, whose light- 
blue eyes 
Are tender over drowning flies, 

You tell me, doubt is Devil-born. 

I know not : one indeed I knew 

c In many a subtle question versed, 
Who touch'd a jarring lyre at first, 
But ever strove to make it true : 

Ferplext in faith, but pure in deeds, 
At last he beat his music out. 
There lives more faith in honest 
doubt, 

Believe me, than in half the creeds. 

He fought his doubts and gather'd 
strength, 
He would not make his judgment 

blind, 
He faced the spectres of the mind 
And laid them : thus he came at length 

To find a stronger faith his own ; 

And Power was with him in the 

night, 
Which makes the darkness and 
the light, 
And dwells not in the light alone, 

But in the darkness and the cloud, 
As over Sinai's peaks of old, 
While Israel made their gods of 
gold, 

Altho' the trumpet blew so loud. 



My love has talk'd with rocks and 
trees ; 
He finds on misty mountain- 
ground 
His own vast shadow glory- 
crown'd ; 
He sees himself in all he sees. 

Two partners of a married life — 

I look'd on these and thought of 

thee 
In vastness and in mystery, 

And of my spirit as of a wife. 

These two — they dwelt with eye on 
eye, 
Their hearts of old have beat in 

tune, 
Their meetings made December 
June, 
Their every parting was to die. 

Their love has never past away ; 
The days she never can forget 
Are earnest that he loves her yet, 

Whate'er the faithless people say. 

Her life is lone, he sits apart, 

He loves her yet, she will not weep, 
Tho' ?apt in matters dark and 
deep 

He seems to slight her simple heart. 

He thrids the labyrinth of the mind, 
He reads the secret of the star, 
He seems so near and yet so far, 

He looks so cold : she thinks him kind. 

She keeps the gift of years before, 
A wither'd violet is her bliss : 
She knows not what his great- 
ness is, 

For that, for all, she loves him more. 

For him she plays, to him she sings 
Of early faith and plighted vows ; 
She knows but matters of the 
house, 

And he, he knows a thousand things 



512 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Her faith is fixt and cannot move, 
She darkly feels him great and 

wise, 
She dwells on him with faithful 
eyes, 
" I cannot understand : I love." 



You leave us : you will see the Rhine, 
And those fair hills I sail'd below, 
When I was there with him ; and 
go 

By summer belts of wheat and vine 

To where he breathed his latest breath, 
That City. All her splendor 

seems 
No livelier than the wisp that 
gleams 
On Lethe in the eyes of Death. 

Let her great Danube rolling fair 
Enwind her isles, unmark'd of 

me : 
I have not seen, 1 will not see 

Vienna ; rather dream that there, 

A treble darkness, Evil haunts 

The birth, the bridal ; friend from 

friend 
Is oftener parted, fathers bend 

Above more graves, a thousand wants 

Gnarr at the heels of men, and prey 
By each cold hearth, and sad- 
ness flings 
Her shadow on the blaze of 
kings : 
And yet myself have heard him say, 

That not in any mother town 

With statelier progress to and 

fro 
The double tides of chariots flow 

By park and suburb under brown 

Of lustier leaves ; nor more content, 

He told me, lives in any crowd, 

When all is gay with lamps, and 

loud 

With sport and song, in booth and 

tent, 



Imperial halls, or open plain ; 

And wheels the circled dance, and 
breaks 

The rocket molten into flakes 
Of crimson or in emerald rain. 

xcix. 

Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again, 

So loud with voices of the birds, 

So thick with lowings* of the 

herds, 

Day, when I lost the flower of men ; 

Who tremblest thro' thy darkling red 
On yon swoll'n brook that bubbles 

fast 
By meadows breathing of the 
past, 
And woodlands holy to the dead ; 

Who murmurest in the f oliaged eaves 
A song that slights the coming 

care, 
And Autumn laying here and 
there 
A fiery finger on the leaves ; 

Who wakenest with thy balmy breath 
To myriads on the genial earth, 
Memories of bridal, or of birth, 

And unto myriads more, of death. 

wheresoever those may be, 

Betwixt the slumber of the poles, 
To-day they count as kindred 

souls ; 
They know me not, but mourn with 

me. 

c. 

1 climb the hill : from end to end 

Of all the landscape underneath, 
I find no place that does not 
breathe 
Some gracious memory of my friend ; 

No gray old grange, or lonely fold, 
Or low morass and whispering 

reed, 
Or simple stile from mead to 
mead, 
Or sheepwalk up the windy wold ; 



IN MEMORIAM. 



513 



Nor hoary knoll of ash and haw 

That hears the latest linnet trill, 
Nor quarry trench'd along the 
hill 

And haunted by the wrangling daw ; 

Nor runlet tinkling from the rock ; 
Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves 
To left and right thro' meadowy 
curves, 

That feed the mothers of the flock ; 

But each has pleased a kindred eye, 
And each reflects a kindlier day ; 
And, leaving these, to pass away, 

I think once more he seems to die. 



I'nwatch'd, the garden bough shall 
sway, 
The tender blossom flutter down, 
Unloved, that beech will gather 
brown, 
This maple burn itself away ; 

Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair, 
Ray round with flames her disk 

of seed, 
And many a rose-carnation feed 

With summer spice the humming air ; 

Unloved, by many a sandy bar, 

The brook shall babble doAvn the 

plain, 
At noon or when the lesser wain 

Is twisting round the polar star ; 

Uncared for, gird the windy grove, 
And flood the haunts of hern and 

crake ; 
Or into silver arrows break 

The sailing moon in creek and cove ; 

Till from the garden and the wild 
A fresh association blow, 
And year by year the landscape 
grow 

Familiar to the stranger's child ; 

As year by year the laborer tills 

His wonted glebe, or lops the 
glades , 



And year by year our memory 
fades 
From all the circle of the hills. 



We leave the well-beloved place 

Where first we gazed upon the 

sky ; 
The roofs, that heard our earliest 
cry, 
Will shelter one of stranger race. 

We go, but ere we go from home, 

As down the garden-walks T 

move, 
Two spirits of a diverse love 

Contend for loving masterdom. 

I One whispers, " Here thy boyhood 
sung 
Long since its matin song, and 

heard 
The low love-language of the bird 
In native hazels tassel-hung." 

The other answers, " Yea, but here 
Thy feet have stray'd in after 

hours 
With thy lost friend among the 
bowers, 
And this hath made them trebly 
dear." 

These two have striven half the day, 
And each prefers his separate 

claim, 
Poor rivals in a losing game, 

That will not yield each other way. 

I turn to go : my feet are set 

To leave the pleasant fields and 

farms ; 
They mix in one another's arms 

To one pure image of regret. 



On that last night before we went 
From out the doors where jl was 

bred, 
I dream'd a vision of the dead, 

Which left my after-morn content. 



514 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Methought I dwelt within a hall, 

And maidens with me : distant 

hills 
From hidden summits fed with 
rills 
A river sliding by the wall. 

The hall Avith harp and carol rang. 
They sang of what is wise and 

good 
And graceful. In the centre 
stood 
A statue veil'd, to which they sang; 

And which, tho' veil'd, was known to 
me, 
The shape of him I loved, and 

love 
For ever : then flew in a dove 
And brought a summons from the 



And when they learnt that I must go 
They wept and wail'd, but led the 

way 
To where a little shallop lay 

At anchor in the flood below ; 

And on by many a level mead, 

And shadowing bluff that made 

the banks, 
We glided winding under ranks 

Of iris, and the golden reed ; 

And still as vaster grew the shore 
And rolPd the floods in grander 

space, 
The maidens gather'd strength 
and grace 
And presence, lordlier than before ; 

And I myself, who sat apart 

And watch'd them, wax'd in every 

limb ; 
I felt the thews of Anakim, 

The pulses of a Titan's heart ; 

As one would sing the death of war, 
And one would chant the history 
Of that great race, which is to 
be, 

And one the shaping of a star ; 



Until the forward-creeping tides 

Began to foam, and we to draw 
From deep to deep, to where we 
saw 

A great ship lift her shining sides. 

The man we loved was there on deck, 
But thrice as large as man he bent 
To greet us. Up the side I went, 

And fell in silence on his neck : 

Whereat those maidens with one mind 
BewaiFd their lot; I did them 

wrong : 
" We served thee here," they said, 
" so long, 
And wilt thou leave us now behind 1 " 

So rapt I was, they could not win 
An answer from my lips, but he 
Replying, " Enter likewise ye 

And go with us : " they enter 'd in. 

And while the wind began to sweep 
A music out of sheet and shroud, 
We steer'd her toward a crimson 
cloud 

That landlike slept along the deep. 



The time draws near the birth of 
Christ; 

The moon is hid, the night is still ; 

A single church below the hill 
Is pealing, folded in the mist. 

A single peal of bells below, 

That wakens at this hour of rest 
A single murmur in the breast, 

That these are not the bells I know. 

Like strangers' voices here they sound, 
In lands where not a memory 

strays, 
Nor landmark breathes of other 
days, 
But all is new unhallow'd ground. 



To-night ungather'd let us leave 

This laurel, let this holly stand : 
We live within the stranger's land. 

And strangely falls our Christmas-eve 



IN MEM OR I AM. 



515 



Our father's dust is left alone 

And silent under other snows : 
There in due time the woodbine 
blows, 

The violet comes, but we are gone. 

No more shall wayward grief abuse 
The genial hour with mask and 

mime ; 
For change, of place, like growth 
of time, 
Has broke the bond of dying use. 

Let cares that petty shadows cast, 
By which our lives are chiefly 

proved, 
A little spare the night I loved, 

And hold it solemn to the past. 

But let no footstep beat the floor, 

Nor bowl of wassail mantle warm ; 
For who would keep an ancient 
form 
Thro' which the spirit breathes no 
more 1 

Be neither song, nor game, nor feast ; 

Nor harp be touch'd, nor flute be 
blown ; 

No dance, no motion, save alone 
What lightens in the lucid east 

Of rising worlds by yonder wood. 
Long sleeps the summer in the 

seed ; 
Run out your measured arcs, and 
lead 
The closing cycle rich in good. 



Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
The flying cloud, the frosty light : 
The year is dying in the night; 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new, 

Ring, happy bells, across the 

snow : 
The year is going, let him go; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 



Ring out the grief that saps the mind, 
For those that here we see no 

more ; 
Ring out the feud of rich and 
poor, 
Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause, 

And ancient forms of party strife ; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life, 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, 
The faithless coldness of the 

times ; 
Ring out, ring out my mournful 
rhymes, 
But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Ring out false pride in place and 
blood, 

The civic slander and the spite ; 

Ring in the love of truth and right, 
Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease; 

Ring out the narrowing lust of 
gold; 

Ring out the thousand wars of old, 
Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free, 
The larger heart, the kindlier 

hand; 
Ring out the darkness of the land, 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 

cvn. 

It is the day when he was born, 
A bitter day that early sank 
Behind a purple-frosty bank 

Of vapor, leaving night forlorn. 

The time admits not flowers or leaves 
To deck the banquet. Fiercely 

flies 
The blast of North and East, and 
ice 
Makes daggers at the sharpen'd eaves, 

And bristles all the brakes and thorns 
To yon hard crescent, as she hangs 



516 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Above the wood which grides and 
clangs 
Its leafless ribs and iron horns 

Together, in the drifts that pass 
To darken on the rolling brine 
That breaks the coast. But fetch 
the wine, 

Arrange the board and brim the glass ; 

Bring in great logs and let them lie, 
To make a solid core of heat ; 
Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat 

Of all things ev'n as he were by ; 

We keep the day. With festal cheer, 
With books and music, surely we 
Will drink to him, whate'er he be, 

And sing the songs he loved to hear. 

cvm. 

I will not shut me from my kind, 
And, lest I stiffen into stone, 
I will not eat my heart alone, 

Nor feed with sighs a passing wind : 

W T hat profit lies in barren faith, 

And vacant yearning, tho' with 

might 
To scale the heaven's highest 
height, 
Or dive below the wells of Death !? 

What find I in the highest place, 

But mine own phantom chanting 

hymns % 
And on the depths of death there 
swims 
The reflex of a human face. 

I'll rather take what fruit may be 
Of sorrow under human skies : 
'Tis held that sorrow makes us 
wise, 

Whatever wisdom sleep with thee. 

cix. 

Heart-affluence in discursive talk 

From household fountains never 

dry; 
The critic clearness of an eye, 

That saw thro' all the Muses' walk ; 



Seraphic intellect and force 

To seize and throw the doubts of 
man; 

Impassion'd logic, which outran 
The hearer in its fiery course ; 

High nature amorous of the good, 
But touch'd with no ascetic 

gloom ; 
And passion pure in snowy bloom 

Thro' all the years of April blood; 

A love of freedom rarely felt, 
Of freedom in her regal seat 
Of England ; not the schoolboy 
heat, 

The blind hysterics of the Celt ; 

And manhood fused with female grace 
In such a sort, the child would 

twine 
A trustful hand, unask'd, in thine, 

And find his comfort in thy face ; 

All these have been, and thee mine 
eyes 
Have look'd on: if they look'd 

in vain, 
My shame is greater who remain, 
Nor let thy wisdom make me wise. 



Thy converse drew us with delight, 
The men of rathe and riper years : 
The feeble soul, a haunt of fears, 

Forgot his weakness in thy sight. 

On thee the loyal-hearted hung, 

The proud was half disarm'd of 

pride, 
Nor cared the serpent at thy side 

To flicker with his double tongue. 

The stern were mild when thou wert by, 
The flippant put himself to school 
And heard thee, and the brazen 
fool 

Was sof ten'd, and he knew not why ; 

While I, thy nearest, sat apart, 

And felt thy triumph was as mine; 



IN MEMORIAM. 



sir 



And loved them more, that they 
were thine, 
The graceful tact, the Christian art ; 

Nor mine the sweetness or the skill, 
But mine the love that will not 

tire, 
And, born of love, the vague 
desire 
That spurs an imitative will. 



The churl in spirit, up or down 

Along the scale of ranks, thro' all, 
To him who grasps a golden ball, 

By blood a king, at heart a clown ; 

The churl in spirit, howe'er he veil 
His want in forms for fashion's 

sake, 
Will let his coltish nature break 

At seasons thro' the gilded pale : 

For who can always act % but he, 

To whom a thousand memories 

call, 
Not being less but more than all 

The gentleness he seem'd to be, 

Best seem'd the thing he was, and 
join'd 
Each office of the social hour 
To noble manners, as the flower 

And native growth of noble mind ; 

Nor ever narrowness or spite, 
Or villain fancy fleeting by, 
Drew in the expression of an eye, 

Where God and Nature met in light ; 

And thus he bore without abuse 

The grand old name of gentleman, 
Defamed by every charlatan, 

And soil'd with all ignoble use. 



High wisdom holds my wisdom less, 
That I, who gaze with temperate 

eyes 
On glorious insufficiencies, 

Set light by narrower perfectness. 



But thou, that fillest all the room 
Of all my love, art reason why 
I seem to cast a careless eye 

On souls, the lesser lords of doom. 

For what wert thou ? some novel 
power 
Sprang up for ever at a touch, 
And hope could never hope too 
much, 
In watching thee from hour to hour, 

Large elements in order brought, 

And tracts of calm from tempest 

made, 
And world-wide fluctuation s way 'd 

In vassal tides that follow'd thought. 

CXIII. 

Tis held that sorrow makes us wise ; 

Yet how much wisdom sleeps 
with thee 

Which not alone had guided me, 
But served the seasons that may rise ; 

For can I doubt, who knew thee keen 
In intellect, with force and skill 
To strive, to fashion, to fulfil — 

I doubt not what thou wouldst have 
been : 

A life in civic action warm, 

A soul on highest mission sent, 
A potent voice of Parliament, 

A pillar steadfast in the storm, 

Should licensed boldness gather force, 
Becoming, when the time has 

birth, 
A lever to uplift the earth 

And roll it in another course, 

With thousand shocks that come and 
go, 
With agonies, with energies, 
With overthrowings, and with 
cries, 
And undulations to and fro. 



cxiv. 
Who loves not Knowledge 1 
shall rail 



Who 



518 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Against her beauty 1 May she 

mix 
With men and prosper ! Who 

shall fix 
Her pillars ? Let her work prevail. 

But on her forehead sits a fire : 

She sets her forward countenance 
And leaps into the future chance, 

Submitting all things to desire. 

Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain — 
She cannot fight the fear of death. 
What is she, cut from love and 
faith, 

But some wild Pallas from the brain 

Of Demons ? fiery-hot to burst 

All barriers in her onward race 
For power. Let her know her 
place ; 

She is the second, not the first. 

A higher hand must make her mild, 
If all be not in vain ; and guide 
Her footsteps, moving side by side 

With wisdom, like the younger child : 

For she is earthly of the mind, 

But Wisdom heavenly of the soul. 
O, friend, who earnest to thy goal 

So early, leaving me behind, 

I would the great world grew like thee, 
Who grewest not alone in power 
And knowledge, but by year and 
hour 

In reverence and in charity. 



Now fades the last long streak of snow, 
Now burgeons every maze of 

quick 
About the flowering squares, and 
thick 
By ashen roots the violets blow. 

Now rings the woodland loud and long, 
The distance takes a lovelier hue, 
And drown'd in yonder living blue 

The lark becomes a sightless song. 



Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, 
The flocks are whiter down the 

vale, 
And milkier every milky sail 

On winding stream or distant sea ; 

Where now the seamew pipes, or dives 

In yonder greening gleam, and fly 

The happy birds, that change 

their sky 

To build and brood ; that live their 

lives 

From land to land ; and in my breast 
Spring wakens too ; and my re- 
gret 
Becomes an April violet, 

And buds and blossoms like the rest. 

cxvi. 
Is it, then, regret for buried time 

That keenlier in sweet April 

wakes, 
And meets the year, and gives 
and takes 
The colors of the crescent prime ? 

Not all : the songs, the stirring air, 
The life re-orient out of dust, 
Cry thro' the sense to hearten 
trust 

In that which made the world so fair. 

Not all regret : the face will shine 
Upon me, while I muse alone ; 
And that dear voice, I once have 
known, 

Still speak to me of me and mine : 

Yet less of sorrow lives in me 

For days of happy commune 

dead ; 
Less yearning for the friendship 
fled, 
Than some strong bond which is to be. 



O days and hours, your work is this 
To hold me from my proper place, 
A little while from his embrace, 

For fuller gain of after bliss : 



m MEMORIAM. 



519 



That out of distance might ensue 

Desire of nearness doubly sweet ; 
And unto meeting when we meet, 

Delight a hundredfold accrue, 

For every grain of sand that runs, 
And every span of shade that 

steals, 
And every kiss of toothed wheels, 

And all the courses of the suns. 



Contemplate all this work of Time, 
The giant laboring in his youtli ; 
Nor dream of human love and 
truth, 

As dying Nature's earth and lime ; 

But trust that those we call the dead 
Are breathers of an ampler day 
For ever nobler ends. They say, 

The solid earth whereon we tread 

In tracts of fluent heat began, 

And grew to seeming-random 

forms, 
The seeming prey of cyclic 
storms, 
Till at the last arose the man ; 

Who throve and branch'd from clime 
to clime, 
The herald of a higher race, 
And of himself in higher place, 

If so he type this work of time 

Within himself, from more to more ; 
Or, crown'd with attributes of woe 
Like glories, move his course, 
and show 

That life is not as idle ore, 

But iron dug from central gloom, 

And heated hot with burning 

fears, 
And dipt in baths of hissing tears, 

And batter'd with the shocks of doom 

To shape and use. Arise and fly 

The reeling Faun, the sensual 
feast : 



Move upward, working out the 
beast, 
And let the ape and tiger die. 



Doors, where my heart was used to 
beat 
So quickly, not as one that weeps 
I come once more; the city sleeps; 

I smell the meadow in the street ; 

I hear a chirp of birds ; I see 

Betwixt the black fronts long- 
withdrawn 
A light-blue lane of early dawn, 

And think of early days and thee, 

And bless thee, for thy lips are bland, 
And bright the friendship of 

thine eye ; 
And in my thoughts with scarce 
a sigh 
I take the pressure of thine hand. 



I trust I have not wasted breath : 
I think we are not wholly brain, 
Magnetic mockeries ; not in vain, 

Like Paul with beasts, I fought with 
Death; 

Not only cunning casts in clay : 

Let Science prove we are, and 

then 
What matters Science unto men, 

At least to me 1 I would not stay. 

Let him, the wiser man who springs 
Hereafter, up from childhood 

shape 
His action like the greater ape, 

But I was born to other things. 



Sad Hesper o'er the buried sun 

And .ready, thou, to die with him. 
Thou watchest all things evei 
dim 

And dimmer, and a glory done : 



520 



IN MEMORIAM. 



The team is loosen'd from the wain, 
The boat is drawn upon the shore ; 
Thou listenest to the closing door, 

And life is darken'd in the brain. 

Bright Phosphor, fresher for the night, 
By thee the world's great work is 

heard 
Beginning, and the wakeful bird ; 

Behind thee comes the greater light: 

The market boat is on the stream, 
And voices hail it from the 

brink ; 
Thou hear'st the village hammer 
clink, 
And see'st the moving of the team. 

Sweet Hesper-Phosphor, double name 
For what is one, the first, the last, 
Thou, like my present and my 
past, 

Thy place is changed ; thou art the 



CXXII. 

Oh, wast thou with me, dearest, then, 
While I rose up against my doom, 
And yearn'd to burst the folded 
gloom, 

To bare the eternal Heavens again, 

To feel once more, in placid awe, 
The strong imagination roll 
A sphere of stars about my soul, 

In all her motion one with law ; 

If thou wert with me, and the grave 
Divide us not, be with me now, 
And enter in at breast and brow, 

Till all my blood, a fuller wave, 

Be quicken'd with a livelier breath, 
And like an inconsiderate boy, 
As in the former flash of joy, 

I slip the thoughts of life and death ; 

And all the breeze of Fancy blows, 
And every dew-drop paints a bow, 
The wizard lightnings deeply 
glow, 

And every thought breaks out a rose. 



CXXII2. 

There rolls the deep where grew the 
tree. 

earth, what changes hast thou 
seen ! 

There where the long street roars r 
hath been 
The stillness of the central sea. 

The hills are shadows, and they flow 
From form to form, and nothing 

stands ; 
They melt like mist, the solid lands, 
Like clouds they shape themselves 
and go. 

But in my spirit will I dwell, 

And dream my dream, and hold 

it true ; 
For tho' my lips may breathe adieu, 

I cannot think the thing farewell. 

cxxiv. 
That which we dare invoke to bless ; 
Our dearest faith ; our ghastliest 

doubt ; 
He, They, One, All ; within, with- 
out; 
The Power in darkness whom we 
guess ; 

I found Him not in world or sun, 
Or eagle's wing, or insect's eye ; 
Nor thro' the questions men may 
try, 

The petty cobwebs we have spun : 

If e'er when faith had fall'n asleep, 

1 heard a voice " believe no more " 
And heard an ever-breaking shore 

That tumbled in the Godless deep ; 

A warmth within the breast would 

melt 

The freezing reason's colder part, 

And like a man in wrath the 

heart 

Stood up and answer'd " I have felt." 

No, like a child in doubt and fear : 
But that blind clamor made me 
wise; 



IN MEMORIAM. 



521 



Then was I as a child that cries, 
But, crying, knows his father near ; 

And what I am beheld again 

What is, and no man understands ; 
And out of darkness came the 
hands 
That reach thro' nature, moulding 
men. 



Whatever I have said or sung, 

Some bitter notes my harp would 

give, 
Yea, tho' there often seem'd to 
live 
A contradiction on the tongue, 

Yet Hope had never lost her youth ; 
She did but look through dimmer 

eyes ; 
Or Love but play'd with gracious 
lies, 
Because he felt so fix'd in truth : 

And if the song were full of care, 
He breathed the spirit of the song ; 
And if the words were sweet and 
strong 

He set his royal signet there ; 

Abiding with me till I sail 

To seek thee on the mystic deeps, 
And this electric force, that keeps 

A thousand pulses dancing, fail 

cxxvi. 

Love is and was my Lord and King, 
And in his presence I attend 
To hear the tidings of my friend, 

Which every hour his couriers bring. 

Love is and was my King and Lord, 
And will be, tho' as yet I keep 
Within his court on earth, and 
sleep 

Encompass'd by his faithful guard, 

And hear at times a sentinel 

Who moves about from place to 
place, 



And whispers to the worlds of 
space, 
In the deep night, that all is well. 

cxxvu. 
And all is well, tho' faith and form 
Be sunder'd in the night of fear ; 
Well roars the storm to those that 
hear 
A deeper voice across the storm, 

Proclaiming social truth shall spread, 
And justice, ev'n tho' thrice again 
The red fool-fury of the Seine 

Should pile her barricades with dead. 

But ill for him that wears a crown, 
And him, the lazar, in his rags : 
They tremble, the sustaining 
crags ; 

The spires of ice are toppled down, 

And molten up, and roar in flood ; 
The fortress crashes from on high, 
The brute earth lightens to the 
sky, 

And the great iEon sinks in blood, 

And compass'd by the fires of Hell ; 

While thou, dear spirit, happy 
star, 

O'erlook'st the tumult from afar, 
And smilest, knowing all is well. 



The love that rose on stronger wings, 
Unpalsied when he met with 

Death, 
Is comrade of the lesser faith 

That sees the course of human things. 

No doubt vast eddies in the flood 

Of onward time shall yet be made, 
And throned races may degrade ; 

Yet O ye mysteries of good, 

Wild Hours that fly with Hope and 
Fear, 
If all your office had to do 
With old results that look like 
new ; 
If this were all your mission here, 



522 



IN MEMORIAM. 



To draw, to sheathe a useless sword, 
To fool the crowd with glorious 

lies, 
To cleave a creed in sects and 
cries, 
To change the bearing of a word, 

To shift an arbitrary power, 

To cramp the student at his desk, 
To make old bareness picturesque 

And tuft with grass a feudal tower.; 

Why then my scorn might well descend 
On you and yours. I see in part 
That all, as in some piece of art, 

Is toil cooperant to an end. 



Dear friend, far off, my lost desire, 
So far, so near in woe and weal ; 

loved the most, when most I feel 
There is a lower and a higher ; 

Known and unknown ; human, divine ; 
Sweet human hand and lips and 

eye; 
Dear heavenly friend that canst 
not die, 
Mine, mine, for ever, ever mine ; 

Strange friend, past, present, and to be; 

Loved deeplier, darklier under- 
stood ; 

Behold, I dream a dream of good, 
And mingle all the world with thee. 

cxxx. 

Thy voice is on the rolling air ; 

1 hear thee where the waters run ; 
Thou standest in the rising sun, 

And in the setting thou art fair. 

What art thou then 1 I cannot guess ; 
But tho' I seem in star and flower 
To feel thee some diffusive power, 

I do not therefore love thee less : 

My love involves the love before ; 

My love is vaster passion now ; 

Tho' mix'd with God and Nature 
thou, 
I seem to love thee more and more. 



Far off thou art, but ever nigh ; 

I have thee still, and I rejoice ; 

I prosper, circled with thy voice , 
I shall not lose thee tho' I die. 



O living will that shalt endure 

When all that seems shall suffer 

shock, 
Rise in the spiritual rock, 
Flow thro' our deeds and make them 
pure, 

That we may lift from out of dust 
A voice as unto him that hears, 
A cry above the conquer'd years 

To one that with us works, and trust, 

With faith that comes of self-control, 
The truths that never can be 

proved 
Until we close with all we loved, 

And all we flow from, soul in soul. 



O true and tried, so well and long, 
Demand not thou a marriage lay ; 
In that it is thy marriage day 

Is music more than any song. 

Nor have I felt so much of bliss 

Since first he told me that he 

loved 
A daughter of our house; nor 
proved 
Since that dark day a day like this ; 

Tho' I since then have number'd o'er 
Some thrice three years: they went 

and came, 
Remade the blood and changed 
the fame, 
And yet is love not less, but more ; 

No longer caring to embalm 

In dying songs a dead regret, 
But like a statue solid-set, 

And moulded in colossal calm. 

Regret is dead, but love is more 

Than in the summers that are 
flown, 



IN MEMORIAM. 



523 



For I myself with these hare 
grown 
To something greater than before ; 

Which makes appear the songs I 
made 
As echoes out of weaker times, 
As half hut idle brawling rhymes, 

The sport of random sun and shade. 

But where is she, the bridal flower, 
That must be made a wife ere 

noon 1 
She enters, glowing like the moon 

Of Eden on its bridal bower : 

On me she bends her blissful eyes 
And then on thee ; they meet thy 

look 
And brighten like the star that 
shook 
Betwixt the palms of paradise. 

O when her life was yet in bud, 

He too foretold the perfect rose. 
For thee she grew, for thee she 
grows 

For ever, and as fair as good. 

And thou art worthy ; full of power ; 
As gentle; liberal-minded, great, 
Consistent; wearing all that 
weight 

Of learning lightly like a flower. 

But now set out *. the noon is near, 
And I must give away the bride ; 
She fears not, or with thee 
beside 

And me behind her, will not fear. 

For I that danced her on my knee, 
That watch'd her on her nurse's 

arm, 
That shielded all her life from 
harm 
At last must part with her to thee ; 

Now waiting to be made a wife, 

Her feet, my darling, on the dead ; 
Their pensive tablets round her 
head, 

And the most living words of life 



Breathed in her ear. The ring is on, 
The " wilt thou " answer'd, and 

again 
The " wilt thou " ask'd, till out of 
twain 
Her sweet " I will " has made you one. 

Now sign your names, which shall be 
read, 
Mute symbols of a joyful morn, 
By village eyes as yet unborn ; 

The names are sign'd, and overhead 

Begins the clash and clang that tells 
The joy to every wandering 

breeze ; 
The blind wall rocks, and on the 
trees 
The dead leaf trembles to the bells. 

O happy hour, and happier hours 
Await them. Many a merry face 
Salutes them — maidens of the 
place, 

That pelt us in the porch with flowers, 

O happy hour, behold the bride 

With him to whom her hand I 

gave. 
They leave the porch, they pass 
the grave 
That has to-day its sunny side. 

To-day the grave is bright for me, 
For them the light of life in- 
creased, 
Who stay to share the morning 
feast, 
Who rest to-night beside the sea. 

Let all my genial spirits advance 
To meet and greet a whiter sun ; 
My drooping memory will not 
shun 

The foaming grape of eastern France. 

It circles round, and fancy plays, 

And hearts are warm'd and faces 

bloom, 
As drinking health to bride and 
groom 
We wish them store of happy days. 



524 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Nor count me all to blame if I 
Conjecture of a stiller guest, 
Perchance, perchance, among the 
rest, 

And, tho' in silence, wishing joy. 

But they must go, the time draws on, 
And those white-favor'd horses 

wait; 
They rise, but linger ; it is late ; 

Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone. 

A shade falls on us like the dark 

From little cloudlets on the grass, 
But sweeps away as out we pass 

To range the woods, to roam the park, 

Discussing how their courtship grew, 
And talk of others that are wed, 
And how she look'd, and what he 
said, 

And back we come at fall of dew. 

Again the feast, the speech, the glee, 
The shade of passing thought, 

the wealth 
Of words and wit, the doable 
health, 
The crowning cup, the three-times- 
three, 

And last the dance ; — till I retire : 
Dumb is that tower which spake 

so loud, 
And high in heaven the stream- 
ing cloud, 
And on the downs a rising fire : 

And rise, O moon, from yonder down, 
Till over down and over dale 
All night the shining vapor sail 

And pass the silent-lighted town, 

The white-faced halls, the glancing 
rills, 



And catch at every mountain 

head, 
And o'er the friths that branch 
and spread 
Their sleeping silver thro' the hills ; 

And touch with shade the bridal doors. 
With tender gloom the roof, the 

wall ; 
And breaking let the splendor fall 

To spangle all the happy shores 

By which they rest, and ocean sounds, 
And, star and system rolling past, 
A soul shall draw from out the 
vast 

And strike his being into bounds, 

And, moved thro' life of lower phase, 
Result in man, be born and think, 
And act and love, a closer link 

Betwixt us and the crowning race 

Of those that, eye to eye, shall look 
On knowledge ; under whose com- 
mand 
Is Earth and Earth's, and in their 
hand 
Is Nature like an open book; 

No longer half-akin to brute, 

For all we thought and loved and 

did, 
And hoped, and suffer'd, is but 
seed 
Of what in them is flower and fruit ; 

Whereof the man, that with me trod 
This planet, was a noble type 
Appearing ere the times were ripe, 

That friend of mine who lives in God, 

That God, which ever lives and loves, 
One God, one law, one element, 
And one far-off divine event, 

To which the whole creation moves. 



THE LOVEB'S TALE. 



The original Preface to "The Lover'8 Tale" states that it was composed in my nineteenth 
year. Two only of the three parts then written were printed, when, feeling the imperfection 
of the poem, I withdrew it from the press. One of my friends however who, boylike, admired 
the boy's work, distributed among our common associates of that hour some copies of 
these two parts, without my knowledge, without the omissions and amendments which 
1 had in contemplation, and marred by the many misprints of the compositor. Seeing that 
these two parts have of late been mercilessly pirated, and that what I had deemed scarce 
worthy to live is not allowed to die, may I not be pardoned if I suffer the whole poem at last 
to come into the light — accompanied with a reprint of the sequel — a work of my mature life 
— " The Golden Supper "? 
May, 1879. 

ARGUMENT. 

Julian, whose cousin and foster-sister, Camilla, has been wedded to his friend and rival, 
Lionel, endeavors to narrate the story of his own love for her, and the strange sequel. He 
speaks (in Parts II. and III.) of having been haunted by visions and the sound of bells, tolling 
for a funeral, and at last ringing for a marriage; but he breaks away, overcome, as he ap- 
proaches the Event, and a witness to it completes the tale. 



I. 

Here far away, seen from the top- 
most cliff, 

Filling with purple gloom the vacan- 
cies 

Between the tufted hills, the sloping 
seas 

Hung in mid-heaven, and half-way 
down rare sails, 

White as white clouds, floated from 
sky to sky. 

Oh ! pleasant breast of waters, quiet 
bay, 

Like to a quiet mind in the loud 
world, 

Where the chafed breakers of the 
outer sea 

Sank powerless, as anger falls aside 

And withers on the breast of peaceful 
love; 

Thou didst receive the growth of pines 
that fledged 

The hills that vvatch'd thee, as Love 
wateheth Love, 

In thine own essence, and delight thy- 
self 



To make it wholly thine on sunny 

days. 
Keep thou thy name of " Lover's 

Bay." See, sirs, 
Even now the Goddess of the Past, 

that takes 
The heart, and sometimes touches but 

one string 
That quivers, and is silent, and some- 
times 
Sweeps suddenly all its half-moulder'd 

chords 
To some old melody, begins to play 
That air which pleased her first. I 

feel thy breath ; 
I come, great Mistress of the ear and 

eye: 
Thy breath is of the pinewood ; and 

tho' years 
Have hollow'd out a deep and stormy 

strait 
Betwixt the native land of Love and 

me, 
Breathe but a little on me, and the 

sail 
Will draw me to the rising of the 

sun, 



526 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



The lucid chambers of the morning 

star, 
And East of Life. 

Permit me, friend, I prythee, 
To pass my hand across my brows, 

and muse 
On those dear hills, that never more 

will meet 
The sight that throbs and aches be- 
neath my touch, 
As tho' there beat a heart in either 

eye; 
For when the outer lights are darken'd 

thus, 
The memory's vision hath a keener 

edge. 
It grows upon me now — the semi- 

, circle 
Of dark-blue waters and the narrow 

fringe 
Of curving beach — its wreaths of 

dripping green — 
Its pale pink shells — the summer- 
house aloft 
That open'd on the pines with doors 

of glass, 
A mountain nest — the pleasure-boat 

that rock'd, 
Light-green with its own shadow, keel 

to keel, 
Upon the dappled dimplings of the 

wave, 
That blanch'd upon its side. 

Love, O Hope ! 
They come, they crowd upon me all 

at once — 
Moved from the cloud of unforgotten 

things, 
That sometimes on the horizon of the 

mind 
Lies folded, often sweeps athwart in 

storm — 
Flash upon flash they lighten thro' me 

— days 
Of dewy dawning and the amber 

eves 
When thou and I, Camilla, thou and 

I 
Were borne about the bay or safely 

moor'd 



Beneath a low-brow'd cavern, where 

the tide 
Plash'd, sapping its worn ribs ; and all 

without 
The slowly-ridging rollers on the 

cliffs 
Clash'd, calling to each other, and 

thro' the arch 
Down those loud waters, like a setting 

star, 
Mixt with the gorgeous west the light- 
house shone, 
And silver-smiling Venus ere she fell 
Would often loiter in her balmy 

blue, 
To crown it with herself. 

Here, too, my love 
Waver'd at anchor with me, when day 

hung 
From his mid-dome in Heaven's airy 

halls ; 
Gleams of the water-circles as they 

broke, 
Flicker'd like doubtful smiles about 

her lips, 
Quiver'd a flying glory on her hair, 
Leapt like a passing thought across 

her eyes ; 
And mine with one that will not pass, 

till earth 
And heaven pass too, dwelt on my 

heaven, a face 
Most starry-fair, but kindled from 

within 
As 'twere with dawn. She was dark- 

hair'd, dark-eyed: 
Oh, such dark eyes ! a single glance 

of them 
Will govern a whole life from birth 

to death, 
Careless of all things else, led on 

with light 
In trances and in visions : look at 

them, 
You lose yourself in utter ignorance ; 
You cannot find their depth ; for they 

go back, 
And farther back, and still withdraw 

themselves 
Quite into the deep soul, that ever- 
more 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



527 



Fresh springing from her fountains in 
the brain, 

Still pouring thro', floods with redun- 
dant lite 

Her narrow portals. 

Trust me, long ago 
I should have died, If it were possible 
To die in gazing on that perfectness 
Which I do bear within me: I had 

died, 
But from my farthest lapse, my latest 

ebb, 
Thine image, like a charm of light 

and strength 
Upon the waters, push'd me back 

again 
On these deserted sands of barren 

life. 
Tho' from the deep vault where the 

heart of Hope 
Fell into dust, and crumbled in the 

dark — 
Forgetting how to render beautiful 
Her countenance with quick and 

healthful blood — 
Thou didst not sway me upward; 

could I perish 
While thou, a meteor of the sepul- 
chre, 
Didst swathe thyself all round Hope's 

quiet urn 
For ever? He, that saith it, hath 

o'er-stept 
The slippery footing of his narrow 

wit, 
And fall'n away from judgment. 

Thou art light, 
To which my spirit leaneth all her 

flowers, 
And length of days, and immortality 
Of thought, and freshness ever self- 

renew'd. 
For Time and Grief abode too long 

with Life, 
And, like all other friends i' the world, 

at last 
They grew aweary of her fellowship : 
So Time and Grief did beckon unto 

Death, 
A in! Death drew nigh and beat the 

doors of Life ; 



But thou didst sit alone in the inner 

house, 
A wakeful portress, and didst parle 

with Death, — 
" This is a charmed dwelling which I 

. old;" 
So Death gave back, and would no 

further come. 
Yet is my life nor in the present time, 
Nor in the present place. To me 

alone, 
Push'd from his chair of regal heri- 
tage, 
The Present is the vassal of the Past : 
So that, in that I have lived, do I live, 
And cannot die, and am, in having 

been — 
A portion of the pleasant yesterday, 
Thrust forward on to-day and out of 

place ; 
A body journeying onward, sick with 

toil, 
The weight as if of age upon my 

limbs, 
The grasp of hopeless grief about my 

heart, 
And all the senses weaken'd, save in 

that, 
Which long ago they had glean'd and 

garner'd up 
Into the granaries of memory — 
The clear brow, bulwark of the 

precious brain, 
Chink' d as you see, and seam'd — and 

all the while 
The light soul twines and mingles 

with the growths 
Of vigorous early days, attracted, 

won, 
Married, made one with, molten into 

all 
The beautiful in Past of act or place, 
And like the all-enduring camel, 

driven 
Far from the diamond fountain by the 

palms, 
Who toils across the middle moonlit 

nights, 
Or when the white heats of the blind- 
ing noons 
Beat from the concave sand ; yet in 

him keeps 



528 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



A draught of that sweet fountain that 

he loves, 
To stay his feet from falling, and his 

spirit 
From bitterness of death. 

Ye ask me, friends, 
When I began to love. How should 

I tell you ? 
Or from the after-fulness of my heart, 
Flow back again unto my slender 

spring 
And first of love, tho' every turn and 

depth 
Between is clearer in my life than all 
Its present flow. Ye know not what 

ye ask. 
How should the broad and open flower 

tell 
What sort of bud it was, when, prest 

together 
In its green sheath, close-lapt in silken 

folds, 
It seem'd to keep its sweetness to it- 
self, 
Yet was not the less sweet for that it 

seem'd % 
For young Life knows not when young 

Life was born, 
But takes it all for granted : neither 

Love, 
Warm in the heart, his cradle, can 

remember 
Love in the womb, but resteth satis- 
fied, 
Looking on her that brought him to 

the light : 
Or as men know not when they fall 

asleep 
Into delicious dreams, our other life, 
So know 1 not when I began to love. 
This is my sum of knowledge — that 

my love 
Grew with myself — say rather, was 

my growth, 
My inward sap, the hold I have on 

earth, 
My outward circling air wherewith I 

breathe, 
Which yet upholds my life, and ever- 
more 
Is to me daily life and daily death ; 



For how should I have lived and not 

have loved ? 
Can ye take off the sweetness from 

the flower, 
The color and the sweetness from the 

rose, 
And place them by themselves ; or set 

apart 
Their motions and their brightness 

from the stars, 
And then point out the flower or the 

star 1 ? 
Or build a wall betwixt my life and love, 
And tell me where I am 1 'Tis even 

thus : 
In that I live I love ; because I love 
I live : whate'er is fountain to the one 
Is fountain to the other ; and whene'er 
Our God unknits the riddle of the 

one, 
There is no shade or fold of mystery 
Swathing the other. 

Many, many years, 
(For they seem many and my most of 

life, 
And well I could have linger'd in that 

porch, 
So unproportion'd to the dwelling- 
place,) 
In the Maydews of childhood, opposite 
The flush and dawn of youth, we lived 

together, 
Apart, alone together on those hills. 

Before he saw my day my father 

died, 
And he was happy that he saw it not ; 
But I and the first daisy on his grave 
From the same clay came into light 

at once. 
As Love and I do number equal years, 
So she, my love, is of an age with me. 
How like each other was the birth of 

each ! 
On the same morning, almost the same 

hour, 
Under the selfsame aspect of the stars, 
(Oh falsehood of all starcraft!) we 

were born. 
How like each other was the birth of 

each ! 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



529 



The sister of my mother — she that 

bore 
Camilla close beneath her beating 

heart, 
Which to the imprison'd spirit of the 

child, 
With its true-touched pulses in the 

flow 
And hourly visitation of the blood, 
Sent notes of preparation manifold, 
And mellow'd echoes of the outer 

world — 
My mother's sister, mother of my 

love, 
Who had a twofold claim upon my 

heart, 
One twofold mightier than the other 

was, 
In giving so much beauty to the 

world, 
And so much wealth as God had 

charged her with — 
Loathing to put it from herself for 

ever, 
Left her own life with it ; and dying 

thus, 
Crown'd with her highest act the 

placid face 
And breathless body of her good deeds 

past. 

So were we born, so orphan'd. She 

was motherless 
And I without a father. So from 

each 
Of those two pillars which from earth 

uphold 
Our childhood, one had fallen away, 

and all 
The careful burthen of our tender 

years 
Trembled upon the other. He that 

gave 
Her life, to me delightedly fulfill'd 
All lovingkindnesses, all offices 
Of watchful care and trembling ten- 
derness. 
He waked for both : he pray'd for 

both : he slept 
Dreaming of both : nor was his love 

the less 
Because it was divided, and shot forth 



Boughs on each side, laden with whole- 
some shade, 
Wherein we nested sleeping or awake, 
And sang aloud the matin-song of 
life. 

She was my foster-sister: on one arm 
The flaxen ringlets of our infancies 
Wander'd, the while we rested : one 

soft lap 
Pillow'd us both : a common light of 

eyes 
Was on us as we lay : our baby lips, 
Kissing one bosom, ever drew from 

thence 
The stream of life, one stream, one 

life, one blood, 
One sustenance, which, still as thought 

grew large, 
Still larger moulding all the house of 

thought, 
Made all our tastes and fancies like, 

perhaps — 
All — all but one ; and strange to me, 

and sweet, 
Sweet thro' strange years to know 

that whatsoe'er 
Our general mother meant for me 

alone, 
Our mutual mother dealt to both of 

us : 
So what was earliest mine in earliest 

life, 
I shared with her in whom myself 

remains. 
As was our childhood, so our in- 
fancy, 
They tell me, was a very miracle 
Of fellow-feeling and communion. 
They tell me that we would not be 

alone, — 
We cried when we were parted ; when 

I wept, 
Her smile lit up the rainbow on my 

tears, 
Stay'd on the cloud of sorrow; that 

we loved 
The sound of one-another's voices 

more 
Than the gray cuckoo loves his name, 

and learn'd 
To lisp in tune together ; that we slept 



530 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



In the same cradle always, face to face. 

Heart beating time to heart, lip press- 
ing lip, 

Folding each other, breathing on each 
other, 

Dreaming together (dreaming of each 
other 

They should have added), till the 
morning light 

Sloped thro' the pines, upon the dewy 
pane 

Falling, unseal'd our eyelids, and we 
woke 

To gaze upon each other. If this be 
true, 

At thought of which my whole soul 
languishes 

And faints, and hath no pulse, no 
breath — as tho' 

A man in some still garden should in- 
fuse 

Rich atar in the bosom of the rose, 

Till, drunk with its own wine, and 
overfull 

Of sweetness, and in smelling of itself, 

It fall on its own thorns — if this be 
true — 

And that way my wish leads me ever- 
more 

Still to believe it — 'tis so sweet a 
thought, 

Why in the utter stillness of the 
soul 

Doth question'd memory answer not, 
nor tell 

Of this our earliest, our closest-drawn, 

Most loveliest, earthly-heavenliest har- 
mony ? 
blossom'd portal of the lonely 
house, 

Green prelude, April promise, glad 
new year 

Of Being, which with earliest violets 

Andlavish carol of clear-throatedlarks 

Fill'd all the March of life! — I will 
not speak of thee. 

These have not seen thee, these can 
never know thee, 

They cannot understand me. Pass 
we then 

A term of eighteen years. Ye would 
but laugh, 



If I should tell you how I hoard in 

thought 
The faded rhymes and scraps of an- 
cient crones, 
Gray relics of the nurseries of the 

world, 
Which are as gems set in my memory, 
Because she learnt them with me ; or 

what use 
To know her father left us just before 
The daffodil was blown ? or how we 

found 
The dead man cast upon the shore ? 

All this 
Seems to the quiet daylight of your 

minds 
But cloud and smoke, and in the dark 

of mine 
Is traced with flame. Move with me 

to the event. 

There came a glorious morning, 

such a one 
As dawns but once a season. Mercury 
On such a morning would have flung 

himself 
From cloud to cloud, and swum with 

balanced wings 
To some tall mountain : when I said 

to her, 
"A day for Gods to stoop," she an- 
swered. "Ay, 
And men to soar : " for as that other 

gazed, 
Shading his eyes till all the fiery cloud, 
The prophet and the chariot and the 

steeds, 
Suck'd into oneness like a little star 
Were drunk into the inmost blue, we 

stood, 
When first we came from out the 

pines at noon, 
With hands for eaves, uplooking and 

almost 
Waiting to see some blessed shape in 

heaven, 
So bathed we were in brilliance. 

Never yet 
Before or after have I known the 

spring 
Pour with such sudden deluges of 

light 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



531 



Into the middle summer ; for that day 
Love, rising, shook his wings, and 

charged the winds 
With spiced May-sweets from bound 

to bound, and blew 
Fresh fire into the sun, and from 

within 
Burst thro' the heated buds, and sent 

his soul 
Into the songs of birds, and touch'd 

far-off 
His mountain-altars, his high hills, 

with flame 
Milder and purer. 

Thro' the rocks we wound : 

The great pine shook with lonely 
sounds of joy 

That came on the sea-wind. As 
mountain streams 

Our blood ran free : the sunshine 
seem'd to brood 

More warmly on the heart than on 
the brow. 

We often paused, and, looking back, 
we saw 

The clefts and openings in the moun- 
tains fill'd 

With the blue valley and the glisten- 
ing brooks, 

And all the low dark groves, a land 
of love ! 

A land of promise, a land of memory, 

A land of promise flowing with the 
milk 

And hone}' of delicious memories ! 

And down to sea, and far as eye could 
ken, 

Each way from verge to verge a Holy 
Land, 

Still growing holier as you near'd the 
bay, 

For there the Temple stood. 

When we had reach'd 

The grassy platform on some hill, I 
stoop'd, 

I gather'd the wild herbs, and for her 
brows 

And mine made garlands of the self- 
same flower, 

Which she took smiling, and with my 
work thus 



Crown'd her clear forehead. Once or 

twice she told me 
(For I remember all things) to let grow 
The flowers that run poison in their 

veins. 
She said, "The evil flourish in the 

world." 
Then playfully she gave herself the 

lie — 
"Nothing in nature is unbeautiful; 
So, brother, pluck and spare not." 

So I wove 
Ev'n the dull-blooded poppy-stem, 

" whose flower, 
Hued with the scarlet of a fierce sun- 
rise, 
Like to the wild youth of an evil prince, 
Is without sweetness, but who crowns 

himself 
Above the naked poisons of his heart 
In his old age." A graceful thought 

of hers 
Grav'n on my fancy ! And oh, how 

like a nymph, 
A stately mountain nymph she look'd ! 

how native 
Unto the hills she trod on ! While I 

gazed 
My coronal slowly disentwined itself 
And fell between us both ; tho' while 

I gazed 
My spirit leap'd as with those thrills 

of bliss 
That strike across the soul in prayer, 

and show us 
That we are surely heard. Methought 

a light 
Burst from the garland I had wov'n, 

and stood 
A solid glory on her bright black hair ; 
A light methought broke from her 

dark, dark eyes, 
And shot itself into the singing winds ; 
A mystic light flash'd ev'n from her 

white robe 
As from a glass in the sun, and fell 

about 
My footsteps on the mountains. 

Last we came 
To what our people call " The Hill of 
Woe/' 



532 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



A bridge is there, that, look'd at from 

beneath 
Seems but a cobweb filament to link 
The yawning of an earthquake-cloven 

chasm. 
And thence one night, when all the 

winds were loud, 
A woful man (for so the story went) 
Had thrust his wife and child and 

dash'd himself 
Into the dizzy depth below. Below, 
Fierce in the strength of far descent, 

a stream 
Flies with a shatter'd foam along the 

chasm. 

The path was perilous, loosely strown 

with crags : 
We mounted slowly ; yet to both 

there came 
The joy of life in steepness overcome, 
And victories of ascent, and looking 

down 
On all that had look'd down on us ; 

and joy 
In breathing nearer heaven ; and joy 

to me, 
High over all the azure-circled earth, 
To breath with her as if in heaven it- 
self; 
And more than joy that I to her be- 
came 
Her guardian and her angel, raising her 
Still higher, past all peril, until she saw 
Beneath her feet the region far away, 
Beyond the nearest mountain's bosky 

brows, 
Arise in open prospect — heath and hill, 
And hollow lined and wooded to the 

lips, 
And deep-down walls of battlemented 

rock 
Gilded with broom, or shatter'd into 

spires, 
And glory of broad waters interfused, 
Whence rose as it were breath and 

steam of gold, 
And over all the great wood rioting 
And climbing, streak'd or starr'd at 

intervals 
With falling brook orblossom'd bush 

— and last, 



Framing the mighty landscape to the 

west, 
A purple range of mountain-cones, 

between 
Whose interspaces gush'd in blinding 

bursts 
The incorporate blaze of sun and sea. 

At length 
Descending from the point and stand- 
ing both, 
There on the tremulous bridge, that 

from beneath 
Had seem'd a gossamer filament up in 

air, 
We paused amid the splendor. All 

the west 
And ev'n unto the middle south was 

ribb'd 
And barr'd with bloom on bloom. 

The sun below, 
Held for a space 'twixt cloud and 

wave, shower'd down 
Rays of a mighty circle, weaving over 
That various wilderness a tissue of 

light 
Unparallel'd. On the other side, the 

moon, 
Half-melted into thin blue air, stood 

still, 
And pale and fibrous as a wither'd 

leaf, 
Not yet endured in presence of His eyes 
To indue his lustre ; most unloverlike, 
Since in his absence full of light and 

joy, 

And giving light to others. But this 

most, 
Next to her presence whom I loved 

so well, 
Spoke loudly even into my inmost 

heart 
As to my outward hearing : the loud 

stream, 
Forth issuing from his portals in the 

crag 
(A visible link unto the home of my 

heart), 
Ran amber toward the west, and nigli 

the sea 
Parting my own loved mountains was 

received, 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



533 



Shorn of its strength, into the sym- 
pathy 

Of that small bay, which out to open 
main 

Glow'd intermingling close beneath 
the sun. 

Spirit of Love ! that little hour was 
bound 

Shut in from Time, and dedicate to 
thee : 

Thy fires from heaven had touched it, 
and the earth 

They fell on became hallow'd ever- 
more. 

We turn'd : our eyes met : hers 

were bright, and mine 
"Were dim with floating tears, that shot 

the sunset 
In lightnings round me ; and my name 

was borne 
Upon her breath. Henceforth my 

name has been . 
A hallow'd memory like the names of 

old, 
A center'd, glory-circled memory, 
And a peculiar treasure, brooking 

not 
Exchange or currency : and in that 

hour 
A hope flow'd round me, like a golden 

mist 
Charm'd amid eddies of melodious airs, 
A moment, ere the onward whirlwind 

shatter it, 
Waver'd and floated — which was less 

than Hope, 
Because it iack'd the power of perfect 

Hope; 
But which was more and higher than 

all Hope, 
Because all other Hope had lower aim ; 
Even that this name to which her 

gracious lips 
Did lend such gentle utterance, this 

one name, 
In some obscure hereafter, might in- 

wreathe 
(How lovelier, nobler then!) her life, 

her love, 
With my life, love, soul, spirit, and 

heart and strength. 



" Brother," she said, " let this be 

call'd henceforth 
The Hill of Hope ; " and I replied, 

"0 sister, 
My will is one with thine ; the Hill of 

Hope." 
Nevertheless, we did not change the 

name. 

I did not speak : I could not speak 

my love. 
Love lieth deep : Love dwells not in 

lip-depths. 
Love wraps his wings on either side 

the heart, 
Constraining it with kisses close and 

warm, 
Absorbing all the incense of sweet 

thoughts 
So that they pass not to the shrine of 

sound. 
Else had the life of that delighted hour 
Drunk in the largeness of the utter- 
ance 
Of Love ; but how should Earthly 

measure mete 
The Heavenly -unmeasured or unlimit- 
ed Love, 
Who scarce can tune his high majestic 

sense 
Unto the thundersong that wheels the 

spheres, 
Scarce living in the -ZEolian harmony, 
And flowing odor of the spacious air, 
Scarce housed within the circle of this 

Earth, 
Be cabin'd up in words and syllables, 
Which pass with that which breathes 

them 1 Sooner Earth 
Might go round Heaven, and the strait 

girth of Time 
Inswathe the fulness of Eternity, 
Than language grasp the infinite of 

Love. 

O day which did enwomb that happy 
hour, 

Thou art blessed in the years, divinest 
day! 

Genius of that hour which dost up- 
hold 

Thy coronal of glory like a God, 



534 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



Amid thy melancholy mates far-seen, 
Who walk before thee, ever turning 

round 
To gaze upon thee till their eyes are 

dim 
With dwelling on the light and depth 

of thine, 
Thy name is ever worshipp'd among 

hours ! 
Had I died then, I had not seem'd to 

die, 
For bliss stood round me like the light 

of Heaven, — 
Had I died then, I had not known the 

death ; 
Yea had the Power from whose right 

hand the light 
Of Life issueth, and from whose left 

hand floweth 
The Shadow of Death, perennial efflu- 
ences, 
Whereof to all that draw the whole- 
some air, 
Some while the one must overflow the 

other ; 
Then had he stemm'd my day with 

night, and driven 
My current to the fountain whence it 

sprang, — 
Even his own abiding excellence — 
On me, methinks, that shock of gloom 

had fall'n 
Unf elt, and in this glory I had merged 
The other, like the sun I gazed 

upon, 
Which seeming for the moment due 

to death, 
And dipping his head low beneath the 

verge, 
Yet bearing round about him his own 

day, 
In confidence of unabated strength, 
Steppeth from Heaven to Heaven, 

from light to light, 
And holdeth his undimmed forehead 

far 
Into a clearer zenith, pure of cloud. 

We trod the shadow of the down- 
ward hill ; 
We past from light to. dark. On the 
other side 



Is scoop'd a cavern and a mountain 
hall, 

Which none have fathom'd. If you 
go far in 

(The country people rumor) you may 
hear 

The moaning of the woman and the 
child, 

Shut in the secret chambers of the 
rock. 

I too have heard a sound — perchance 
of streams 

Running far on within its inmost 
halls, 

The home of darkness ; but the cav- 
ern-mouth, 

Half overtrailed with a wanton weed, 

Gives birth to a brawling brook, that 
passing lightly 

Adown a natural stair of tangled roots, 

Is presently received in a sweet grave 

Of eglantines, a place of burial 

Far lovelier than its cradle ; for un- 
seen, 

But taken with the sweetness of the 
place, 

It makes a constant bubbling melody 

That drowns the nearer echoes. Low- 
er down 

Spreads out a little lake, that, flood- 
ing, leaves 

Low banks of yellow sand ; and from 
the woods 

That belt it rise three dark, tall cy- 
presses, — 

Three cypresses, symbols of mortal 
woe, 

That men plant over graves. 

Hither we came, 
And sitting down upon the golden 

moss, 
Held converse sweet and low — low 

converse sweet, 
In which our voices bore least part. 

The wind 
Told a lovetale beside us, how he woo'd 
The waters, and the waters answering 

lisp'd 
To kisses of the wind, that, sick with 

love, 
Fainted at intervals, and grew again 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



535 



To utterance of passion. Ye cannot 

shape 
Fancy so fair as is this memory. 
Me thought all excellence that ever was 
Had drawn herself from many thou- 
sand years, 
And all the separate Edens of this 

earth, 
To centre in this place and time. I 

listen'd, 
And her words stole with most pre- 
vailing sweetness 
Into my heart, as thronging fancies 

come 
To boys and girls when summer days 

are new, 
And soul and heart and body are all 

at ease : 
What marvel my Camilla told me all 1 
It was so happy an hour, so sweet a 

place, 
And I was as the brother of her blood, 
And by that name I moved upon her 

breath ; 
Dear name, which had too much of 

nearness in it 
And heralded the distance of this time! 
At first her voice was very sweet and 

low, 
As if she were afraid of utterance ; 
But in the onward current of her 

speech, 
(As echoes of the hollow-banked 

brooks 
Are fashion'd by the channel which 

they keep), 
Her words did of their meaning bor- 
row sound, 
Her cheek did catcli the color of her 

words. 
I heard and trembled, yet I could but 

hear ; 
My heart paused — my raised eyelids 

would not fall, 
But still I kept my eyes upon the sky. 
I seem'd the only part of Time stood 

still, 
And saw the motion of all other things ; 
While her words, syllable by syllable, 
Like water, drop by drop, upon my ear 
Fell ; and I wish'd, yet wish'd her not 

to speak; 



But she spake on, for I did name no 

wish, 
What marvel my Camilla told me all 
Her maiden dignities of Hope and 

Love — 
"Perchance," she said, " return'd." 

Even then the stars 
Did tremble in their stations as Igazed; 
But she spake on, for I did name no 

wish, 
No wish — no hope. Hope was not 

wholly dead, 
But breathing hard at the approach 

of Death, — 
Camilla, my Camilla, who was mine 
No longer in the dearest sense of mine — 
For all the secret of her inmost heart, 
And all the maiden empire of her 

mind, 
Lay like a map before me, and I saw 
There, where I hoped myself to reign 

as king, 
There, where that day I crown'd my- 
self as king, 
There in my realm and even on my 

throne, 
Another ! then it seem'd as tho' a link 
Of some tight chain within my inmost 

frame 
Was riven in twain : that life I heeded 

not 
Flow'd from me, and the darkness of 

the grave, 
The darkness of the grave and utter 

night, 
Did swallow up my vision ; at her feet, 
Even the feet of her I loved, I fell, 
Smit with exceeding sorrow unto 

Death. 

Then had the earth beneath me 
yawing cloven 

With such a sound as when an iceberg 
splits 

From cope to base — had Heaven from 
all her doors, 

With all her golden thresholds clash- 
ing, rolled 

Her heaviest thunder — I had lain as 
dead, 

Mute, blind and motionless as then I 
lay; 



536 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



Dead, for henceforth there was no life 

for me ! 
Mute, for henceforth what use were 

words to me ! 
Blind, for the day was as the night to 

me ! 
The night to me was kinder than the 

day; 
The night in pity took away my day, 
Because my grief as yet was newly 

born 
Of eyes too weak to look upon the 

light ; 
And thro' the hasty notice of the ear 
Frail Life was startled from the ten- 
der love 
Of him she brooded over. Would I 

had lain 
Until the plaited ivy-tress had wound 
Round my worn limbs, and the wild 

brier had driven 
Its knotted thorns thro' my unpain- 

ing brows, 
Leaning its roses on my faded eyes. 
The wind had blown above me, and 

the rain 
Had falPn upon me, and the gilded 

snake 
Had nestled in this bosom-throne of 

Love, 
But I had been at rest for evermore. 

Long time entrancement held me. 

All too soon 
Life (like a wanton too-officious friend, 
Who will not hear denial, vain and 

rude 
With proffer of unwish'd-for services) 
Entering all the avenues of sense 
Past thro' into his citadel, the brain, 
With hated warmth of apprehensive- 

ness. 
And first the dullness of the sprinkled 

brook 
Smote on my brows, and then I seem'd 

to hear 
Its murmur, as the drowning seaman 

hears, 
Who with his head below the surface 

dropt 
Listens the muffled booming indistinct 
Of the confused floods, and dimly knows 



His head shall rise no more : and then 

came in 
The white light of the weary moon 

above, 
Diffused and molten into flaky cloud. 
Was my sight drunk that it did shape 

to me 
Him who should own that nam el Were 

it not well 
If so be that the echo of that name 
Ringing within the fancy had updrawn 
A fashion and a phantasm of the 

form 
It should attach to ? Phantom ! — 

had the ghastliest 
That ever lusted for a body, sucking 
The foul steam of the grave to thicken 

by it, 
There in the shuddering moonlight 

brought its face 
And what it has for eyes as close to 

mine 
As he did — better that than his, than 

he 
The friend, the neighbor, Lionel, the 

beloved, 
The loved, the lover, the happy Lionel, 
The low-voiced, tender-spirited Lionel, 
All joy, to whom my agony was a joy. 
O how her choice did leap forth from 

his eyes ! 
O how her love did clothe itself in 

smiles 
About his lips ! and — not one mo- 
ment's grace — 
Then when the effect weigh'd seas 

upon my head 
To come my way ! to twit me with the 

cause ! 

Was not the land as free thro' all 

her ways 
To him as mel Was not his wont to 

walk 
Between the going light and growing 

night ? 
Had I not learnt my loss before he 

came ? 
Could that be more because he came 

my way 1 
Why should he not come my way if 

he would ? 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



537 



And yet to-night, to-night — when all 

my wealth 
Flash'd from* me in a moment and I 

fell 
Beggar'd for ever — why should he 

come my way 
Robed in those robes of light I must 

not wear, 
With that great crown of beams about 

his brows — 
( tome like an angel to a damned soul, 
To tell him of the bliss he had with 

God — 
Come like a careless and a greedy 

heir 
That scarce can wait the reading of 

the will 
Before he takes possession 1 Was 

mine a mood 
To be invaded rudely, and not rather 
A sacred, secret unapproached woe, 
Unspeakable ? I was shut up with 

Grief ; 
She took the body of my past delight, 
Narded and swathed and balm'd it 

for herself, 
And laid it in a sepulchre of rock 
Never to rise again. I was led mute 
Into her temple like a sacrifice ; 
I was the High Priest in her holiest 

place, 
Not to be loudly broken in upon. 

Oh friend, thoughts deep and heavy 

as these well-nigh 
O'erbore the limits of my brain : but he 
Bent o'er me, and my neck his arm 

upstay'd. 
I thought it was an adder's fold, and 

once 
I strove to disengage myself, but 

fail'd, 
Being so feeble : she bent above me, 

too; 
Wan was her cheek; for whatsoe'er 

of blight 
Lives in the dewy touch of pity had 

made 
The red rose there a pale one — and 

her eyes — 
I saw the moonlight glitter on their 

tears — 



And some few drops of that distress- 
ful rain 
Fell on my face, and her long ringlets 

moved, 
Drooping and beaten by the breeze, 

and brush' d 
My fallen forehead in their to and 

fro, 
For in the sudden anguish of her heart 
Loosed from their simple thrall they 

had flow'd abroad, 
And floated on and parted round her 

neck, 
Mantling her form halfway. She, 

when I woke, 
Something she ask'd, I know not what, 

and ask'd, 
Unanswer'd, since I spake not; for 

the sound 
Of that dear voice so musically low, 
And now first heard with any sense 

of pain, 
As it had taken life away before, 
Choked all the syllables, that strove 

to rise 
From my full heart. 

The blissful lover, too, 
From his great hoard of happiness 

distill'd 
Some drops of solace ; like a vain 

rich man, 
That, having always prosper'd in the 

world, 
Folding his hands, deals comfortable 

words 
To hearts wounded for ever ; yet, in 

truth, 
Fair speech was his and delicate of 

phrase, 
Falling in whispers on the sense, ad- 

dress'd 
More to the inward than the outward 

ear, 
As rain of the midsummer midnight 

soft, 
Scarce-heard, recalling fragrance and 

the green 
Of the dead spring : but mine was 

wholly dead, 
No bud, no leaf, no flower, no fruit 

for me. 



538 



"HE LOVER'S TALE. 



Yet who had done, or who had suffer'd 

wrong 1 
And why was I to darken their pure 

love, 
If, as I found, they two did love each 

other, 
Because my own was darken'd ? Why 

was I 
To cross between their happy star and 

them 1 
To stand a shadow by their shining 

doors, 
And vex them with my darkness q . 

Did I love her ? 
Ye know that I did love her ; to this 

present 
My full-orb'd love has waned not. 

Did I love her, 
And could I look upon her tearful 

eyes? 
What had she done to weep 1 Why 

should she weep 1 

innocent of spirit — let my heart 
Break rather — whom the gentlest 

airs of Heaven 

Should kiss with an unwonted gentle- 
ness. 

Her love did murder mine ? What 
then % She deem'd 

1 wore a brother's mind : she call'd 

me brother : 
She told me all her love : she shall 
not weep. 

The brightness of a burning thought, 

awhile 
In battle with the glooms of my dark 

will, 
Moonlike emerged, and to itself lit up 
There on the depth of an unfathom'd 

woe 
Reflex of action. Starting up at once, 
As from a dismal dream of my own 

death, 
I, for I loved her, lost my love in 

Love ; 
I, for I loved her, graspt the hand she 

lov'd, 
And laid it in her own, and sent my 

cry 
Thro' the blank night to Him who 

loving made 



The happy and the unhappy love, 

that He 
Would hold the hand of blessing over 

them, 
Lionel, the happy, and her, and her, 

his bride ! 
Let them so love that men and boys 

may say, 
" Lo ! how they love each other ! " till 

their love 
Shall ripen to a proverb, unto all 
Known, when their faces are forgot in 

the land — 
One golden dream of love, from which 

may death 
Awake them with heaven's music in a 

life 
More living to some happier happi- 
ness, 
Swallowing its precedent in victory. 
And as for me, Camilla, as for me, — ■ 
The dew of tears is an unwholesome 

dew, 
They will but sicken the sick plant 

the more. 
Deem that I love thee but as brothers 

do, 
So shalt thou love me still as sisters 

do ; 
Or if thou dream aught farther, 

dream but how 
I could have loved thee, had there 

been none else 
To love as lovers, loved again by 

thee. 

Or this, or somewhat like to this, I 
spake, 

When I beheld her weep so rue- 
fully; 

For sure my love should ne'er indue 
the front 

And mask of Hate, who lives on 
others' moans. 

Shall Love pledge Hatred in her bit- 
ter draughts, 

And batten on her poisons ? Love 
forbid ! 

Love passeth not the threshold of cold 
Hate, 

And Hate is strange beneath the roof 
of Love. 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



539 



Love, if thou be'st Love, dry up 

these tears 
Shed for the love of Love ; for tho' 

mine image, 
The subject of thy power, be cold in 

her, 
Yet, like cold snow, it melteth in the 

source 
Of these sad tears, and feeds their 

downward flow. 
So Love, arraigned to judgment and 

to death, 
Received unto himself a part of 

blame, 
Being guiltless, as an innocent pri- 
soner, 
Who, when the woful sentence hath 

been past. 
And all the clearness of his fame hath 

gone 
Beneath the shadow of the curse of 

man, 
First falls asleep in swoon, wherefrom 

awaked, 
And looking round upon his tearful 

friends, 
Forthwith and in his agony con- 
ceives 
A shameful sense as of a cleaving 

crime — 
For whence without some guilt should 

such grief be ? 

So died that hour, and fell into the 
abysm 

Of forms outworn, but not to me out- 
worn, 

Who never hail'd another — was there 
one % 

There might be one — one other, worth 
the life 

That made it sensible. So that hour 
died 

Like odor rapt into the winged 
wind 

Borne into alien lands and far away. 

There be some hearts so airily built, 

tli at they, 
They — when their love is wreck'd — 

if Love can wreck — 
On that sharp ridge of utmost doom 

ride highly 



Above the perilous seas of Change 

and Chance ; 
Nay, more, hold out the lights of 

cheerfulness ; 
As the tall ship, that many a dreary 

year 
Knit to some dismal sandbank far at 

sea, 
All thro' the livelong hours of utter 

dark, 
Showers slanting light upon the dolor- 
ous wave. 
For me — what light, what gleam on 

those black ways 
Where Love could walk with banish d 

Hope no more 1 

It was ill-done to part you, Sisters 

fair ; 
Love's arms were wreath'd about tht 

neck of Hope, 
And Hope kiss'd Love, and Love 

drew in her breath 
In that close kiss, and drank her 

whisper'd tales. 
They said that Love would die when 

Hope was gone, 
And Love mourn'd long, and sorrow'd 

after Hope ; 
At last she sought out Memory, and 

they trod 
The same old paths where Love had 

walk'd with Hope, 
And Memory fed the soul of Love 

with tears. 



II. 

From that time forth I would not see 

her more ; 
But many weary moons I lived 

alone — 
Alone, and in the heart of the great 

forest. 
Sometimes upon the hills beside the 

sea 
All day I watch'd the floating isles of 

shade, 
And sometimes on the shore, upon the 

sands 
Insensibly I drew her name, until 
The meaning of the letters shot into 



540 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



My brain ; anon the wanton billow 

wash'd 
Them over, till they faded like my 

love. 
The hollow caverns heard me — the 

black brooks 
Of the midf orest heard me — the soft 

winds, 
Laden with thistledown and seeds of 

flowers, 
Paused in their course to hear me, for 

my voice 
Was all of thee : the merry linnet 

knew me, 
The squirrel knew me, and the dragon- 
fly 
Shot by me like a flash of purple fire. 
The rough brier tore my bleeding 

palms ; the hemlock, 
Brow-high, did strike my forehead as 

I past ; 
Yet trod I not the wildflower in my 

path, 
Nor bruised the wildbird's egg. 

Was this the end % 
Why grew we then together in one 

plot? 
Why fed we from one fountain 1 drew 

one sun ? 
Why were our mothers' branches of 

one stem ? 
Why were we one in all things, save 

in that 
Where to have been one had been the 

cope and crown 
Of all I hoped and fear'd ? — if that 

same nearness 
Were father to this distance, and that 

one 
Vauntcourier to the double ? if Affec- 
tion 
Living slew Love, and Sympathy 

hew'd out 
The bosom-sepulchre of Sympathy ? 

Chiefly I sought the cavern and the 

hill 
Where last we roam'd together, for the 

sound 
Of the loud stream was pleasant, and 

the wind 



Came wooingly with woodbine smells. 
Sometimes 

All day I sat within the cavern-mouth, 

Fixing my eyes on those three cypress- 
cones 

That spired above the wood ; and with 
mad hand 

Tearing the bright leaves of the ivy- 
screen, 

I cast them in the noisy brook be- 
neath, 

And watch'd them till they vamsh'd 
from my sight 

Beneath the bower of wreathed eglan- 
tines : 

And all the fragments of the living 
rock 

(Huge blocks, which some old trem- 
bling of the world 

Had loosen'd from the mountain, till 
they fell 

Half-digging their own graves) these 
in my agony 

Did I make bare of all the golden 
moss, 

Wherewith the dashing runnel in the 
spring 

Had liveried them all over. In my 
brain 

The spirit seem'd to flag from thought 
to thought, 

As moonlight wandering thro' a mist ; 
my blood 

Crept like marsh drains thro' all my 
languid limbs ; 

The motions of my heart seem'd far 
within me, 

"[Infrequent, low, as tho' it told its 
pulses ; 

And yet it shook me, that my frame 
would shudder, 

As if 'twere drawn asunder by the rack- 

But over the deep graves of Hope and 
Fear, 

And all the broken palaces of the 
Past, 

Brooded one master-passion evermore, 

Like to a low-hung and a fiery sky 

Above some fair metropolis, earth- 
shock'd, — 

Hung round with ragged rims and 
burning folds, — 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



541 



Embathing all with wild and woful 

hues, 
Great hills of ruins, and collapsed 

masses 
Of thundershaken columns indistinct, 
And fused together in the tyrannous 

light - 
Ruins, the ruin of all my life and me ! 

Sometimes I thought Camilla was 
no more, 

Some one had told me she was dead, 
and ask'd 

If I would see her burial : then Iseem'd 

To rise, and through the forest-shadow 
borne 

With more than mortal swiftness, I 
ran down 

The steepy sea-bank, till I came upon 

The rear of a procession, curving round 

The silver- sheeted bay : in front of 
which 

Six stately virgins, all in white, upbear 

A broad earth-sweeping pall of whitest 
lawn, 

Wreathed round the bier with gar- 
lands : in the distance, 

From out the yellow woods upon the 
hill 

Look'd forth the summit and the pin- 
nacles 

Of a gray steeple — thence at intervals 

A low bell tolling. All the pageantry, 

Save those six virgins which upheld 
the bier, 

Were stoled from head to foot in flow- 
ing black ; 

One walk'd abreast with me, and veiPd 
his brow, 

And he was loud in weeping and in 
praise 

Of her we follow'd: a strong sympathy 

Shook all my soul: I flung myself 
upon him 

In tears and cries : I told him all my 
love, 

How I had loved her from the first ; 
whereat 

lie shrank and liowl'd, and from his 
brow drew back 

His hand to push me from him ; and 
the face, 



The very face and form of Lionel 

Flash'd thro' my eyes into my inner- 
most brain, 

And at his feet I seem'd to faint and 
fall, 

To fall and die away. I could not rise 

Albeit I strove to follow. They past 
on, 

The lordly Phantasms ! in their float- 
ing folds 

They past and were no more : but I 
had fallen 

Prone by the dashing runnel on the 
grass. 

Alway the inaudible invisible 

thought, 
Artificer and subject, lord and slave, 
Shaped by the audible and visible, 
Moulded the audible and visible; 
All crisped sounds of wave and leaf 

and wind, 
Platter'd the fancy of my fading brain; 
The cloud-pavilion'd element, the 

wood, • 
The mountain, the three cypresses, the 

cave, 
Storm, sunset, glows and glories of 

the moon 
Below black firs, when silent-creeping 

winds 
Laid the long night in silver streaks 

and bars, 
Were wrought into the tissue of my 

dream : 
The moanings in the forest, the loud 

brook, 
Cries of the partridge like a rusty key 
Turn'd in a lock, owl-whoop and dor- 
hawk-whirr 
Awoke me not, but were a part of 

sleep, 
And voices in the distance calling to me 
And in my vision bidding me dream on, 
Like sounds without the twilight realm 

of dreams, 
Which wander round the bases of the 

hills, 
And murmur at the low-dropt eaves 

of sleep, 
Ealf-entering the portals. Oftentimes 
The vision had fair prelude, in the end 



542 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



Opening on darkness, stately vesti- 
bules 

To caves and shows of Death : wheth- 
er the mind, 

With some revenge — even to itself 
unknown, — 

Made strange division of its suffering 

With her, whom to have suffering 
view'd had been 

Extremest pain ; or that the clear-eyed 
Spirit, 

Being blunted in the Present, grew at 
length 

Prophetical and prescient of whate'er 

The Future had in store : or that 
which most 

Enchains belief, the sorrow of my 
spirit 

Was of so wide a compass it took in 

All I had loved, and my dull agony, 

Ideally to her transferr'd, became 

Anguish intolerable. 

The day waned ; 
Alone I sat with her : about my 

brow 
Her warm breath floated in the utter- 
ance 
Of silver-chorded tones : her lips 

were sunder'd 
With smiles of tranquil bliss, which 

broke in light 
Like morning from her eyes — her 

eloquent eyes, 
(As I have seen them many a hundred 

times) 
FilPd all with pure clear fire, thro' 

mine down rain'd 
Their spirit-searching splendors. As 

a vision 
Unto a haggard prisoner, iron-stay'd 
In damp and dismal dungeons under- 
ground, 
Confined on points of faith, when 

strength is shocked 
With torment, and expectancy of 

worse 
Upon the morrow, thro' the ragged 

walls, 
All unawares before his half -shut eyes, 
Comes in upon him in the dead of 

night, 



And with the excess of sweetness and 

of awe, 
Makes the heart tremble, and the 

sight run over 
Upon his steely gyves ; so those fair 

eyes 
Shone on my darkness, forms which 

ever stood 
Within the magic cirque of memory, 
Invisible but deathless, waiting still 
The edict of the will to reassume 
The semblance of those rare realities 
Of which they were the mirrors. Now 

the light 
Which was their life, burst through 

the cloud of thought 
Keen, irrepressible. 

It was a room 
Within the summer-house of which I 

spake, 
Hung round with paintings of the sea, 

and one 
A vessel in mid-ocean, her heaved 

rrow 
Clambering, the mast bent and the 

T avin wind 
In her sail roaring. From the outer 

day, 
Betwixt the close-set ivies came a 

broad 
And solid beam of isolated light, 
Crowded with driving atomies, and 

fell 
Slanting upon that picture, from prime 

youth 
Well-known well-loved. She drew it 

long ago 
Forthgazing on the waste and open 

sea, 
One morning when the upblown bil- 
low ran 
Shoreward beneath red clouds, and I 

had pour'd 
Into the shadowing pencil's naked 

forms 
Color and life : it was a bond and seal 
Of friendship, spoken of with tearful 

smiles ; 
A monument of childhood and of 

love ; 
i The poesy of childhood; my lost love 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



543 



Symbol'd in storm. We gazed on it 

together 
In mute and glad remembrance, and 

each heart 
Grew closer to the other, and the eve 
Was riveted and charm-bound, gazing 

like 

The Indian on a still-eyed snake, low- 

couch'd — 
A beauty which is death; when all at 

once 
That painted vessel, as with inner 

life, 
Began to heave upon that painted 

Bea ; 
An earthquake, my loud heart-beats, 

made the ground 
Reel under us, and all at once, soul, 

life 
And breath and motion, past and 

flow'd a way 
To those unreal billows : round and 

round 
A whirlwind caught and bore us ; 

mighty gyres 
Rapid and vast, of hissing spray wind- 
driven 
Far thro' the dizzy dark. Aloud she 

shriek'd ; 
My heart was cloven with pain; I 

wound my arms 
About her: we whirl'd giddily; the 

wind 
Sung ; but I clasp'd her withoat fear : 

her weight 
Shrank in my grasp, and over my dim 

eyes, 
And parted lips which drank her 

breath, down-hung 
The jaws of Death : I, groaning, from 

me flung 
Her empty phantom : all the sway and 

whirl 
Of the storm dropt to windless calm, 

and I 
Down welter'd thro' the dark ever and 

ever. 

III. 

J. came one da v and sat among the 
stones 



Strewn in the entry of the moaning 

cave ; 
A morning air, sweet after rain, ran 

over 
The rippling levels of the lake, and 

blew 
Coolness and moisture and all smells 

of bud 
And foliage from the dark and drip- 
ping woods 
Upon my fever'd brows that shook 

and throbb'd 
From temple unto temple. To what 

height 
The day had grown I know not. Then 

came on me 
The hollow tolling of the bell, and all 
The vision of the bier. As heretofore 
I walk'd behind with one who veil'd 

his brow. 
Methought by slow degrees the sullen 

bell 
Toll'd quicker, and the breakers on the 

shore 
Sloped into louder surf : those that 

went with me, 
And those that held the bier before 

my face, 
Moved w r ith one spirit round about 

the bay, 
Trod swifter steps ; and while I walk'd 

with these 
In marvel at that gradual change, I 

thought 
Four bells instead of one began to 

ring, 
Four merry bells, four merry marriage- 
bells, 
In clanging cadence jangling peal on 

peal — 
A long loud clash of rapid marriage- 
bells. 
Then those who led the van, and those 

in rear, 
Riish'd into dance, and like wild Bac- 
chanals 
Fled onward to the steeple in the 

woods : 
I, too, was borne along and felt the 

blast 
Beat on my heated eyelids : all at 

once 



544 



THE LOVERS TALE. 



The front rank made a sudden halt ; 

the bells 
Lapsed into frightful stillness ; the 

surge fell 
From thunder into whispers ; those six 

maids 
With shrieks and ringing laughter on 

the sand 
Threw down the bier ; the woods upon 

the hill 
Waved with a sudden gust that sweep- 
ing down 
Took the edges of the pall, and blew 

it far 
Until it hung, a little silver cloud 
Over the sounding seas : I turn'd : my 

heart 
Shrank in me, like a snowflake in the 

hand, 
Waiting to see the settled countenance 
Of her I loved, adorn'd with fading 

flowers. 
But she from out her death-like 

chrysalis, 
She from her bier, as into fresher 

life, 
My sister, and my cousin, and my 

love, 
Leapt lightly clad in bridal white — 

her hair 
Studded with one rich Provence rose 

— a light 
Of smiling welcome round her lips — 

her eyes 
And cheeks as bright as when she 

climb'd the hill. 
One hand she reach'd to those that 

came behind, 
And while I mused nor yet endured 

to take 
So rich a prize, the man who stood 

with me 
Stept gaily forward, throwing down 

his robes, 
And claspt her hand in his : again the 

bells 
Jangled and clang'd : again the stormy 

surf 
Crash'd in the shingle : and the whirl- 
ing rout 
Led by those two rush'd into dance, 

and fled 



Wind-footed to the steeple in the 

woods, 
Till they were swallow'd in the leafy 

bowers, 
And I stood sole beside the vacant 

bier. 

There, there, my latest vision — then 
the event ! 

IV. 

THE GOLDEN SUPPER. 1 

(Another speaks.) 

He flies the event : he leaves the event 

to me : 
Poor Julian — how he rush'd away; 

the bells, 
Those marriage-bells, echoing in ear 

and heart — 
But cast a parting glance at me, you 

saw, 
As who should say " Continue." Well 

he had 
One golden hour — of triumph shall I 

say? 
Solace at least — before he left his 

home. 

Would you had seen him in that 
hour of his ! 

He moved thro' all of it majesti- 
cally — 

RestraA/d himself quite to the close — 
but now — 

Whether they were his lady's mar- 
riage bells, 

Or prophets of them in his fantasy, 

I never ask'd : but Lionel and the girl 

Were wedded, and our Julian came 
again 

Back to his mother's house among the 
pines. 

But these, their gloom, the mountains 
and the Bay, 

The whole land weigh'd him down as 
JEtna does 

The Giant of Mythology : he would 

go, 

1 This poem is founded upon a story in 
Boccaccio. See Introduction, p. 647. 



THE LOVERS TALE. 



545 



Would leave the land for ever, and 

had gone 
Surely, but for a whisper, " Go not 

yet," 

Some warning- — sent divinely — as it 

seem'd 
By that which f ollow'd — but of this 

I deem 
As of the visions that he told — the 

event 
Glanced back upon them in his after 

life, 
And partly made them — tho' he knew 

it not. 

And thus he stay'd and would not 

look at her — 
No not for months : but, when the 

eleventh moon 
After their marriage lit the lover's Bay, 
Heard yet once more the tolling bell, 

and said, 
Would you could toll me out of life, 

but found — 
All softly as his mother broke it to 

him — 
A crueller reason than a crazy ear, 
For that low knell tolling his lady 

dead — 
Dead — and had lain three days with- 
out a pulse : 
All that look'd on her had pronounced 

her dead. 
And so they bore her (for in Julian's 

land 
They never nail a dumb head up in 

elm), 
Bore her free-faced to the free airs of 

heaven, 
And laid her in the vault of her own 

kin. 

What did he then ? not die : he is 

here and hale — 
Not plunge headforemost from the 

mountain there, 
And leave the name of Lover's Leap : 

not he : 
He knew the meaning of the whisper 

now, 
Thought that he knew it. " This, I 

stay'd for this ; 



love, I have not seen you for so 

long. 
Now, now, will I go down into the 
grave, 

1 will be all alone with all I love, 
And kiss her on the lips. She is his 

no more : 
The dead returns to me, and I go down 
To kiss the dead." 

The fancy stirr'd him so 
He rose and went, and entering the 

dim vault, 
And, making there a sudden light, be- 
held 
All round about him that which all 

will be. 
The light was but a flash, and went 

again. 
Then at the far end of the vault he saw 
His lady with the moonlight on her 

face; 
Her breast as in a shadow-prison, bars 
Of black and bands of silver, which 

the moon 
Struck from an open grating overhead 
High in the wall, and all the rest of 

her 
Drown'd in the gloom and horror of 

the vault. 

" It was my wish," he said, " to pass, 

to sleep, 
To rest, to be with her — till the great 

day 
Peal'd on us with that music which 

rights all, 
And raised us hand in hand." And 

kneeling there 
Down in the dreadful dust that once 

was man, 
Dust, as he said, that once was loving 

hearts, 
Hearts that had beat with such a love 

as mine — 
Not such as mine, no, nor for such as 

her — 
He softly put his arm about her neck 
And kiss'd her more than once, till 

helpless death 
And silence made him bold — nay, but 

I wrong him, 



546 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



He reverenced his dear lady even in 
death ; 

But, placing his true hand upon her 
heart, 

" 0, you warm heart," lie moan'd, 
" not even death 

Can chill you all at once : " then start- 
ing, thought 

His dreams had come again. " Do I 
wake or sleep 1 

Or am I made immortal, or my love 

Mortal once more ? " It beat — the 
heart — it beat : 

Faint — but it beat : at which his own 
began 

To pulse with such a vehemence that 
it drown'd 

The feebler motion underneath his 
hand. 

But when at last his doubts were sat- 
isfied, 

He raised her softly from the sepul- 
chre, 

And, wrapping her all over with the 
cloak 

He came in, and now striding fast, and 
now 

Sitting awhile to rest, but evermore 

Holding his golden burthen in his 
arms, 

So bore her thro' the solitary land 

Back to the mother's house where she 
was born. 

There the good mother's kindly min- 
istering, 
With half a night's appliances, recall'd 
Her fluttering life : she rais'd an eye 

that ask'd 
" Where ? " till the things familiar to 

her youth 
Had made a silent answer : then she 

spoke 
" Here ! and how came I here 1 " and 

learning it 
(They told her somewhat rashly as I 

think) 
At once began to wander and to wail, 
" Ay, but you know that you must give 

me back : 
Send! bid him come;" but Lionel 

was away — 



Stung by his loss had vanish'd, none 
knew where. 

"He casts me out," she wept, " and 
goes " — a wail 

That seeming something, yet was noth- 
ing, born 

Not from believing mind, but shatter'd 
nerve, 

Yet haunting Julian, as her own re- 
proof 

At some precipitance in her burial. 

Then, when her own true spirit had 
return'd, 

" Oh yes, and you," she said, " and 
none but you 1 

For you have given me life and love 
again, 

And none but you yourself shall tell 
him of it, 

And you shall give me back when he 
returns." 

" Stay then a little," answer'd Julian, 
" here, 

And keep yourself, none knowing, to 
yourself ; 

And I will do your will. I may not 
stay, 

No, not an hour ; but send me notice 
of him 

When he returns, and then will I re- 
turn, 

And I will make a solemn offering of 
you 

To him you love." And faintly she 
replied, 

" And I will do your will, and none 
shall know." 

Not know % with such a secret to be 
known. 
But all their house was old and loved 

them both, 
And all the house had known the loves 

of both ; 
Had died almost to serve them any 

way, 
And all the land was waste and soli- 
tary: 
And then he rode away ; but after this, 
An hour or two, Camilla's travail came 
Upon her, and that day a boy was born, 
Heir of his face and land, to Lionel. 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



547 



And thus our lonely lover rode away, 
And pausing at a hostel in a marsh, 
There fever seized upon him : myself 

was then 
Travelling that land, and meant to 

rest an hour ; 
And sitting doAvn to such a hase repast, 
It makes me angry yet to speak of it — 
I heard a groaning overhead, and 

climb'd 
The moulder'd stairs (for everything 

was vile) 
And in a loft, with none to wait on 

him, 
Found, as it seem'd, a skeleton alone, 
Raving of dead men's dust and beat- 
ing hearts. 

A dismal hostel in a dismal land, 
A flat malarian world of reed and rush ! 
But there from fever and my care of 

him 
Sprang up a friendship that may help 

us yet. 
For while we roam'd along the dreary 

coast, 
And waited for her message, piece by 

piece 
I learnt the dearier story of his life ; 
And, tho' he loved and honor'd Lionel, 
Found that the sudden wail his lady 

made 
Dwelt in his fancy : did he know her 

worth, 
Her beauty even ? should he not be 

taught, 
Ev'n by the price that others setupon it, 
The value of that jewel he had to 

guard ? 

Suddenly came her notice and we 
past, 
I with our lover to his native Bay. 

This love is of the brain, the mind, 

the soul : 
That makes the sequel pure ; tho' 

some of us 
Beginning at the sequel know no more. 
Not such am I: and yet I say the bird 
That will not hear my call, however 

sweet, 



But if my neighbor whistle answers 

him — 
What matter? there are others in the 

wood. 
Yet when I saw her (and I thought him 

crazed, 
Tho' not with such a craziness as needs 
A cell and keeper), those dark eyes 

of hers — 
Oh ! such dark eyes ! and not her eyes 

alone, 
But all from these to where she touch'd 

on earth, 
For such a craziness as Julian's look'd 
No less than one divine apology. 

So sweetly and so modestly she came 
To greet us, her young hero in her 

arms ! 
" Kiss him," she said. " You gave me 

life again. 
He, but for you, had never seen it once. 
His other father you ! Kiss him, and 

then 
Forgive him, if his name be Julian too." 

Talk of lost hopes and broken heart ! 

his own 
Sent such a flame into his face, I 

knew 
Some sudden vivid pleasure hit him 

there. 

But he was all the more resolved to 
go, 

And sent at once to Lionel, praying 
him 

By that great love they both had 
borne the dead, 

To come and revel for one hour with 
him 

Before he left the land for evermore ; 

And then to friends — they were not 
many — who lived 

Scatteringly about that lonely land 
of his, 

And bade them to a banquet of fare- 
wells. 

And Julian made a solemn feast : I 

never 
Sat at a costlier ; for all round his hall 



548 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



From column on to column, as in a 

wood, 
Not such as here — an equatorial one, 
Great garlands swung and blossom'd; 

and beneath, 
Heirlooms, and ancient miracles of 

Art, 
Chalice and salver, wines that, Heaven 

knows when, 
Had suck'd the fire of some forgotten 

sun, 
And kept it thro' a hundred years of 

gloom, 
Yet glowing in a heart of ruby — cups 
Where nymph and god ran ever round 

in gold — 
Others of glass as costly — some with 

gems 
Movable and resettable at will, 
And trebling all the rest in value — 

Ah heavens ! 
Why need I tell you all 1 — suffice to 

say 
That whatsoever such a house as his, 
And his was old, has in it rare or fair 
Was brought before the guest : and 

they, the guests, 
Wonder'd at some strange light in 

Julian's eyes 
(I told you that he had his golden 

hour), 
And such a feast, ill-suited as it seem'd 
To such a time, to Lionel's loss and his 
And that resolved self -exile from a 

land 
He never would revisit, such a feast 
So rich, so strange, and stranger ev'n 

than rich, 
But rich as for the nuptials of a king. 

And stranger yet, at one end of the 

hall 
Two great funereal curtains, looping 

down, 
Parted a little ere they met the floor, 
About a picture of his lady, taken 
Some years before, and falling hid the 

frame. 
And just above the parting was a 

lamp : 
So the sweet figure folded round with 

night 



Seem'd stepping out of darkness with 
a smile. 

Well then — our solemn feast — we 

ate and drank, 
And might — the wines being of such 

nobleness — 
Have jested also, but for Julian's eyes, 
And something weird and wild about 

it all : 
What was it? for our lover seldom 

spoke, 
Scarce touch'd the meats ; but ever 

and anon 
A priceless goblet with a priceless wine 
Arising, show'd he drank beyond his 

use ; 
And when the feast was near an end, 

he said: 

" There is a custom in the Orient, 
friends — 

I read of it in Persia — when a man . 

Will honor those who feast with him, 
he brings 

And shows them whatsoever he ac- 
counts 

Of all his treasures the most beautiful, 

Gold, jewels, arms, whatever it may be. 

This custom " 

Pausing here a moment, all 
The guests broke in upon him with 

meeting hands 
And cries about the banquet — " Beau- 
tiful ! 
Who could desire more beauty at a 
feast ? " 

The lover answer'd, " There is more 

than one 
Here sitting who desires it. Laud me 

not 
Before my time, but hear me to the 

close. 
This custom steps yet further when 

the guest 
Is loved and honor'd to the uttermost. 
For after he hath shown him gems or 

gold, 
He brings and sets before him in rich 

guise 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



549 



That which is thrice as beautiful as 

these, 
The beauty that is dearest to his 

heart — 
'0 my heart's lord, would I could 

show you,' he says, 
'Ev'n my heart too.' And I propose 

to-night 
To show you what is dearest to my 

heart, 
And my heart too. 

" But solve me first a doubt. 
I knew a man, nor many years ago ; 
He had a faithful servant, one who 

loved 
His master more than all on earth 

beside. 
He falling sick, and seeming close on 

death, 
His master would not wait until he 

died, 
But bade his menials bear him from 

the door, 
And leave him in the public way to 

die. 
I knew another, not so long ago, 
Who found the dying servant, took 

him home, 
And fed, and cherish'd him, and saved 

his life. 
I ask you now, should this first master 

claim 
His service, whom does it belong to % 

him 
Who thrust him out, or him who saved 

his life 1 " 

This question, so flung down before 

the guests, 
And balanced either way by each, at 

length 
When some were doubtful how the 

law would hold, 
Was handed over by consent of all 
To one who had not spoken, Lionel. 

Fair speech was his, and delicate of 

phrase. 
And he beginning languidly — his loss 
Weigh'd on him yet — but warming 

as he went. 



Glanced at the point of law, to pass 
it by, 

Affirming that as long as either lived, 

By all the laws of love and grateful- 
ness, 

The service of the one so saved was 
due 

All to the saver — adding, with a 
smile, 

The first for many weeks — a semi- 
smile 

As at a strong conclusion — "body 
and soul 

And life and limbs, all his to work his 
will." 

Then Julian made a secret sign to 

me 
To bring Camilla down before them 

all. 
And crossing her own picture as she 

came, 
And looking as much lovelier as her- 
self 
Is lovelier than all others — on her 

head 
A diamond circlet, and from under 

this 
A veil, that seemed no more than 

gilded air, 
Flying by each fine ear, an Eastern 

gauze 
With seeds of gold — so, with that 

grace of hers, 
Slow-moving as a wave against the 

wind, 
That flings a mist behind it in the 

sun — 
And bearing high in arms the mighty 

babe, 
The younger Julian, who himself was 

crown'd 
With roses, none so rosy as himself — 
And over all her babe and her the 

jewels 
Of many generations of his house 
Sparkled and flash'd, for he had 

decked them out 
As for a solemn sacrifice of love — 
So she came in : — I am long in telling 

it, 
I never yet beheld a thing so strange, 



550 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



Sad, sweet, and strange together — 

floated in — 
While all the guests in mute amaze- 
ment rose — 
And slowly pacing to the middle 

hall, 
Before the board, there paused and 

stood, her breast 
Hard-heaving, and her eyes upon her 

feet. 
Not daring yet to glance at Lionel. 
But him she carried, him nor lights 

nor feast 
Dazed or amazed, nor eyes of men ; 

who cared 
Only to use his own, and staring wide 
And hungering for the gilt and 

jewell'd world 
About him, look'd, as he is like to 

prove, 
When Julian goes, the lord of all he 

saw. 

" My guests," said Julian : " you 
are honor'd now 

Ev'n to the uttermost ; in her behold 

Of all my treasures the most beau- 
tiful, 

Of all things upon earth the dearest to 
me." 

Then waving us a sign to seat our- 
selves, 

Led his dear lady to a chair of state. 

And I, by Lionel sitting, saw his face 

Fire, and dead ashes and all fire again 

Thrice in a second, felt him tremble 
too, 

And heard him muttering, " So like, 
so like ; 

She never had a sister. I knew none. 

Some cousin of his and hers — God, 
so like ! " 

And then he suddenly ask'd her if 
she were. 

She shook, and cast her eyes down, 
and was dumb. 

And then some other question'd if she 
came 

From foreign lands, and still she did 
not speak. 

Another, if the boy were hers : but 
she 



To all their queries answer'd not a 

word, 
Which made the amazement more, 

till one of them 
Said, shuddering, " Her spectre ! " 

But his friend 
Replied, in half a whisper, "Not at 

least 
The spectre that will speak if spoken 

to. 
Terrible pity, if one so beautiful 
Prove, as I almost dread to find her 5 

dumb I " 

But Julian, sitting by her, answer'd 

all: 
" She is but dumb, because in her you 

see 
That faithful servant whom we spoke 

about, 
Obedient to her second master now ; 
Which will not last. I have here to- 
night a guest 
So bound to me by common love and 

loss — 
What ! shall I bind him more % in his 

behalf, 
Shall I exceed the Persian, giving 

him 
That which of all things is the dearest 

to me, 
Not only showing 1 and he himself 

pronounced 
That my rich gift is wholly mine to 

give. 

" Now all be dumb, and promise all 

of you 
Not to break in on what I say by 

Avord 
Or whisper, while 1 show you all my 

heart." 
And then began the story of his love 
As here to-day, but not so wordily — 
The passionate moment would not 

suffer that — 
Past thro' his visions to the burial •, 

thence 
Down to this last strange hour in his 

own hall ; 
And then rose up, and with him all 

his guests 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



551 



Once more as by enchantment; all 

but he, 
Lionel, who fain had risen, but fell 

again, 
And sat as if in chains — to whom he 

said : 

" Take my free gift, my cousin, for 

your w r if e ; 
And were it only for the giver's sake, 
And tlio' she seem so like the one you 

lost, 
Yet cast her not away so suddenly, 
Lest there be none left here to bring 

her back : 
I leave this land for ever." Here he 

ceased. 

Then taking his dear lady by one 

hand, 
And bearing one arm the noble 

babe, 
He slowly brought them both to 

Lionel. 
And there the widower husband and 

dead wife 
Kush'd each at each with a cry, that 

rather seem'd 



For some new death than for a life 
renew'd ; 

Whereat the very babe began to wail ; 

At once they turned, and caught and 
brought him in 

To their charm'd circle, and, half kill- 
ing him 

With kisses, round him closed and 
claspt again. 

But Lionel, when at last he freed him- 
self 

From wife and child, and lifted up a 
face 

All over glowing with the sun of 
life, 

And love, and boundless thanks — 
the sight of this 

So frighted our good friend, that turn- 
ing to me 

And saying, " It is over : let us 
go"- 

There were our horses ready at the 
doors — 

We bade them no farewell, but mount- 
ing these 

He past for ever from his native land ; 

And I with him, my Julian, back to 
mine. 



BALLADS AND OTHEE POEMS. 



ALFRED TENNYSON, 



MY GRANDSON. 



Golden-hair'd Ally whose name is one with mine, 

Crazy with laughter and babble and earth's new wine, 

Now that the flower of a year and a half is thine, 

O little blossom, mine, and mine of mine, 

Glorious poet who never hast written a line, 

Laugh, for the name at the head of my verse is thine. 

May'st thou never be wrong'd by the name that is mine ! 



THE FIRST QUARREL. 
(in the isle of wight.) 



" Wait a little," you say, " you are 

sure it'll all come right," 
But the boy was born i' trouble, an' 

looks so wan an' so white : 
Wait ! an' once I ha' waited — I hadn't 

to wait for long. 
Now I wait, wait, wait for Harry. — 

No, no, you are doing me 

wrong ! 
Harry and I were married: the boy 

can hold up his head, 
The boy was born in wedlock, but 

after my man was dead ; 
I ha' work'd for him fifteen years, an' 

I work an' I wait to the end. 
I am all alone in the world, an' you 

are my only friend. 



Doctor, if you can wait, I'll tell you 

the tale o' my life. 
When Harry an' I were children, he 

call'd me his own little wife ; 



I was happy when I was with him, an J 

sorry when he was away, 
An' when we play'd together, I loved 

him better than plaj' ; 
He workt me the daisy chain — he 

made me the cowslip ball, 
He fought the boys that were rude, 

an' I loved him better than all. 
Passionate girl tho' I was, an' often at 

home in disgrace, 
I never could quarrel with Harry — I 

had but to look in his face. 



There was a farmer in Dorset of 

Harry's kin, that had need 
Of a good stout lad at his farm ; he 

sent, an' the father agreed ; 
So Harry was bound to the Dorsetshire 

farm for years an' for years ; 
I walked with him down to the quay, 

poor lad, an' we parted in tears. 
The boat was beginning to move, we 

heard them a-ringing the bell, 
"I'll never love any but you, God 

bless you, my own little Nell," 

IV. 

I was a child, an' he was a child, an' 
he came to harm ; 



THE FIRST QUARREL. 



553 



There was a girl, a hussy, that workt 
with him up at the farm, 

One had deceived her an' left her 
alone with her sin an' her shame, 

And so she was wicked with Harry; the 
girl was the most to blame. 



And years went over till I that was 

little had grown so tall, 
The men would say of the maids, " Our 

Nelly's the flower of 'em all." 
I didn't take heed o' them, but I taught 

myself all I could 
To make a good wife for Harry, when 

Harry came home for good. 



Often I seem'd unhappy, and often as 
happy too, 

For I heard it abroad in the fields " I'll 
never love any but you " ; 

"I'll never love any but you" the 
morning song of the lark, 

"I'll never love any but you" the night- 
ingale's hymn in the dark. 



And Harry came home at last, but he 

look'd at me sidelong and shy, 
Vext me a bit, till he told me that so 

many years had gone, by, 
I had grown so handsome and tall — 

that I might ha' forgot him 

somehow — 
For he thought — there were other 

lads — he was f ear'd to look 

at me now. 



Hard was the frost in the field, we were 

married o' Christmas day, 
Married among the red berries, an' all 

as merry as May — 
Those were the pleasant times, my 

house an' my man were my 

pride, 
We seem'd like ships i' the Channel 

a-sailing with wind an' tide. 



But work was scant in the Isle, tho' 

he tried the villages round, 
So Harry went over the Solent to see 

if work could be found ; 
An' he wrote, "I ha' six weeks' work, 

little wife, so far as I know ; 
I'll come for an hour to-morrow, an' 

kiss you before I go." 



So I set to righting the house, for 

wasn't he coming that day ? 
An' I hit on an old deal-box that was 

push'd in a corner away, 
It was full of old odds an' ends, an' a 

letter along wi' the rest, 
I had better ha' put my naked hand 

in a hornets' nest. 



" Sweetheart " — this was the letter — 

this was the letter I read — 
" You promised to find me work near 

you, an' I wish I was dead — 
Didn't you kiss me an' promise % you 

haven't done it, my lad, 
An' I almost died o' your going away, 

an' I wish that I had." 



I too wish that I had — in the pleasant 

times that had past, 
Before I quarrell'd with Harry — my 

quarrel — the first an' the last. 



For Harry came in, an' I flung him 

the letter that drove me wild, 
An' he told it me all at once, as simple 

as any child, 
" What can it matter, my lass, what I 

did wi' my single life ? 
I ha' been as true to you as ever a 

man to his wife ; 
An' she wasn't one o' the worst." 

" Then," I said, " I'm none o' the 

best." 
An' he smiled at me, "Ain't you, my 

love 1 Come, come, little wife, 

let it rest ! 



554 



RIZPAH. 



The man isn't like the woman, no 

need to make such a stir." 
But he anger'd me all the more, an' I 

said " Youwerekeepingwithher, 
When I was a-loving you all along an' 

the same as before." 
An' he didn't speak for a while, an' 

he anger'd me more and more. 
Then he patted my hand in his gentle 

way, " Let bygones be ! " 
"Bygones! you kept yours hush'd," I 

said, " when you married me ! 
By-gones ma' be come-agains; an' she 

— in her shame an' her sin — 
You'll have her to nurse my child, if 

I die o' my lying in ! 
You'll make her its second mother ! I 

hate her — an' I hate you ! " 
Ah, Harry, my man, you had better 

ha' beaten me black an' blue 
Than ha' spoken as kind as you did, 

when I were so crazy wi' spite, 
" Wait a little, my lass, I am sure it 'ill 

all come right." 



An' he took three turns in the rain, 

an' I watch'd him, an' when he 

came in 
I felt that my heart was hard, he was 

all wet thro' to the skin, 
An' I never said " off wi' the wet," I 

never said " on wi' the dry," 
So 1 knew my heart was hard, when 

he came to bid me goodbye. 
" You said that you hated me, Ellen, 

but that isn't true, you know ; 
I am going to leave you a bit — you'll 

kiss me before I go ? " 



"Going! you're going to her — kiss 

her — if you will," I said, — 
I was near my time wi' the boy, I must 

ha' been light i' my head — 
" I had sooner be cursed than kiss'd ! " 

— I didn't know well what I 

meant, 
But I turn'd my face from him, an' he 

turn'd his face an' he went. 



A nd then he sent me a letter, " I've 

gotten my work to do ; 
You wouldn't kiss me, my lass, an' I 

never loved any but you ; 
I am sorry for all the quarrel an' sorry 

for what she wrote, 
I ha' six weeks' work in Jersey an' go 

to-night by the boat." 



An' 



An' 



the wind began to rise, an' I 

thought of him out at sea, 
I felt I had been to blame ; he 
was always kind to me. 
" Wait a little, my lass, I am sure it 

'ill all come right " — 
An' the boat went down that night — 
the boat went down that night. 



RIZPAH. 
17—. 



Wailing, wailing, wailing, the wind 

over land and sea — 
And Willy's voice in the wind, " 

mother, come out to me." 
Why should he call me to-night, when 

he knows that I cannot go 1 
For the downs are as bright as day, and 

the full moon stares at the snow. 



We should be seen, my dear; they 

would spy us out of the town. 
The loud black nights for us, and the 

storm rushing over the down, 
When I cannot see my own hand, but 

am led by the creak of the chain, 
And grovel and grope for my son till I 

find myself drenched with the 

rain. 

in. 
Anything fallen again? nay — what 

was there left to fall ? 
I have taken them home, I have num- 

ber'd the bones, I have hidden 

them all. 



RIZPAH. 



555 



What am I saying 1 and what are you ? 

do you come as a spy ? 
Falls 1 what falls ? who knows ? As 

the tree falls so must it lie. 



Who let her in? how long ha? she been? 

you — what have you heard 1 
Why did you sit so quiet ? you never 

have spoken a word. 
— to pray with me — yes — a lady 

— none of their spies — 
But the night has crept into my heart, 

and begun to darken my eyes. 



Ah — you, that have lived so soft, 

what should you know of the 

night, 
The blast and the burning shame and 

the bitter frost and the fright ? 
1 have done it, while you were asleep — 

you were only made for the day. 
I have gather'd my baby together — 

and now you may go your way. 



Nay — for it's kind of you, Madam, to 

sit by an old dying wife. 
But say nothing hard of my boy, I 

have only an hour of life. 
I kiss'd my boy in the prison, before 

he went out to die. 
"They dared me to do it," he said, 

and he never has told me a lie. 
I whipt him for robbing an orchard 

once when he was but a child — 
" The farmer dared me to do it," he 

said ; he was always so wild — 
And idle — and couldn't be idle — my 

Willy — he never could rest. 
The King should have made him a 

soldier, he would have been 

one of his best. 



But he lived with a lot of wild mates, 

and they never would let him 

be good ; 
They swore that he dare not rob the 

mail, and he swore that he 

would : 



And he took no life, but he took one 
purse, and when all was done 

He flung it among his fellows — I'll 
none of it, said my son. 



I came into court to the Judge and the 

lawyers. I told them my tale, 
God's own truth — but they kill'd him, 

they kill'd him for robbing the 

mail. 
They hang'd him in chains for a show 

— we had always borne a good 

name — 
To be hang'd for a thief — and then 

put away — isn't that enough 

shame % 
Dust to dust — low down — let us hide ! 

but they set him so high 
That all the ships of the world could 

stare at him, passing by. 
God 'ill pardon the hell-black raven 

and horrible fowls of the air, 
But not the black heart of the lawyer 

who kill'd him and hang'd him 

there. 



And the jailer forced me away. I had 

bid him my last goodbye ; 
They had fastened the door of his cell. 

" mother ! " I heard him cry. 
I couldn't get back tho' I tried, he had 

something further to say, 
And now I never shall know it. The 

jailer forced me away. 



Then since I couldn't but hear that 

cry of my boy that was dead, 
They seized me and shut me up : they 

fasten'd me down on my bed. 
" Mother, mother ! " — he calPd in the* 

dark to me year after year — 
They beat me for that, they beat me 

— you know that I couldn't but 

hear ; 
And then at the last they found I had 

grown so stupid and still 
They let me abroad again — but the 

creatures had worked their will. 



556 



RIZPAH. 



Flesh of my flesh was gone, but bone 

of my bone was left — 
I stole them all from the lawyers — 

and you, will you call it a 

theft 1 — 
My baby, the bones that had suck'd 

me, the bones that had laughed 

and had cried — 
Theirs ? no! they are mine — not 

theirs — they had moved in my 

side. 



Do you think I was scared by the 

bones ? I kiss'd 'em, I buried 

'em all — 
I can't dig deep, I am old — in the 

night by the churchyard wall. 
My Willy 'ill rise up whole when the 

trumpet of judgment 'ill sound, 
But I charge you never to say that I 

laid him in holy ground. 



They would scratch him up — they 
would hang him again on the 
cursed tree. 

Sin ? O yes — we are sinners, I know 

— let all that be, 

And read me a Bible verse of the 
Lord's good will toward men — 

" Full of compassion and mercy, the 
Lord " — let me hear it again ; 

" Full of compassion and mercy — 
long-suffering." Yes, yes ! 

For the lawyer is born but to murder 

— the Saviour lives but to bless . 
He'll never put on the black cap except 

for the worst of the worst, 
And the first may be last — I have 

heard it in church — and the 

last may be first. 
Suffering — O long-suffering — yes, as 

the Lord must know, 
Year after year in the mist and the 

wind and the shower and the 



Heard, have you ? what ? they have 

told you he never repented his 

sin. 
How do they know it ? are they his 

mother % are you of his kin ? 
Heard! have you ever heard, when 

the storm on the downs began, 
The wind that 'ill wail like a child and 

the sea that 'ill moan like a 

man ? 



Election, Election and Reprobation — 

it's all very well. 
But I go to-night to my boy, and I 

shall not find him in Hell. 
For I cared so much for my boy that 

the Lord has look'd into my 

care, 
And He means me Em sure to be happy 

with Willy, I know not where. 



XVI. 

And if he be lost — but to save my soul, 

that is all your desire : 
Do you think that I care for my soul 

if my boy be gone to the fire q . 
I have been with God in the dark — go, 

go, you may leave me alone — 
You never have borne a child — you 

are just as hard as a stone. 



Madam, I beg your pardon ! I think 

that you mean to be kind, 
But I cannot hear what you say for my 

Willy's voice in the wind — 
The snow and the sky so bright — he 

used but to call in the dark, 
And he calls to me now from the 

church and not from the gibbet 

— for hark ! 
Nay — you can hear it yourself — it is 

coming — shaking the walls — 
Willy — the moon's in a -cloud 

Good night. I am going. He 

calls. 



THE NORTHERN COBBLER. 



557 



THE NORTHERN COBBLER, 



Waait till our Sally coorns in, fur 

thou mun a' sights ' to tell. 
Eh, but I be maain glad to seea tha sa 

'arty an' well. 
" Cast awaay an a disolut land \vi' a 

vartical soon 2 ! " 
Strange fur to goa fur to think what 

saailors a' seean an' a' doon ; 
" Summat to drink — sa' 'of? " I 'a 

nowt but Adam's wine : 
What's the 'eat o' this little 'ill-side to 

the 'eat o' the line ? 



" What's i' tha bottle a-stanning 

theer?" I'll tell tha. Gin. 
But if thou wants thy grog, tha mun 

goa fur it down to the inn. 
Naay — fur I be maan-glad, but thaw 

tha was iver sa dry, 
Thou gits naw gin fro' the bottle theer, 

an' I'll tell tha why. 



Mea an' thy sister was married, when 

wur it ? back-end o' June, 
Ten year sin', and wa 'greed as well 

as a fiddle i' tune : 
I could fettle and clump OAvd booots 

and shoes wi' the best on 'era all, 
As fur as fro' Thursby tliurn hup to 

Harmsby and Hutterby Hall. 
We was busy as beeas i' the bloom an' 

as 'appy as 'art could think, 
An' then the babby wur burn, and 

then I taakes to the drink. 

] The vowels di, pronounced separately 
though in the closest conjunction, best render 
the sound of the long i aud y in this dialect. 
But since such words as crdiin\ dciiin' , whcti, 
ais (I), etc., look awkward except in a page 
of express phonetics, I have thought it better 
to leave the simple i and y, and trust that my 
readers will give them the broader pronunci 
anon. 

- The oo short, as in " wood." 



An' I wean t gaainsaay it, my lad, thaw 

I be hafe shaamed on it now, 
We could sing a good song at the 

Plow, we could sing a good song 

at the Plow ; 
Thaw once of a frosty night I slither'd 

an' hurted my huck, 1 
An' I coom'd neck-an-crop soomtimes 

slaape down i' the squad an' 

the muck : 
An' once I f owt wi' the Taailor — not 

hafe ov a man, my lad — 
Fur he scrawm'd an' scratted my f aace 

like a cat, an' it maade 'er sa 

mad 
That Sally she turn'd a tongue-bang- 
er, 2 an' raated ma, ' Sottin' thy 

braains 
Guzzlin' an' soakin' an' smoakin' an' 

hawmin' 3 about i' the laanes, 
Soa sow-droonk that tha doesn not 

touch thy 'at to the Squire ; ' 
An' I loook'd cock-eyed at my noase 

an' I seead 'im a-gitten' o' fire ; 
But sin' I wur hallus i' liquor an' hal- 

lus as droonk as a king, 
Foalks' coostom flitted awaay like a 

kite wi' a brokken string. 



An' Sally she wesh'd foalks' cloaths 

to keep the wolf fro' the door, 
Eh but the moor she riled me, she 

druv me to drink the moor, 
Fur I fun', when 'er back wur turn'd, 

wheer Sally's owd stockin' wur 

'id, 
An' I grabb'd the munny she maade, 

and I wear'd it o' liquor, I did. 



An' one night I cooms 'oam like a 
bull gotten loose at a faair, 

An' she wur a-waaitin' fo'mma, an' 
cryin' and tearin' 'er 'aair, 

An' I tummled athurt the craadle an' 
swear'd as I'd break ivry stick 



Hip. 



2 Scold. 



Lounging. 



558 



THE NORTHERN COBBLER. 



0' furnitur 'ere i' the 'ouse, an' I gied 

our Sally a kick, 
An' I masli'd the taables an' chairs, 

an' she an' the babby beal'd, 1 
Fur I knaw'd naw moor what I did 

nor a mortal beast o' the feald. 



An' when I waaked i' the murnin' I 

seead that our Sally went 

laamed 
Cos' o' the kick as I gied 'er, an' I wur 

dreadful ashaamed ; 
An' Sally wur sloomy 2 an' draggle 

taail'd in an owd turn gown, 
An' the babby's faace wurn't wesh'd 

and the 'ole 'ouse hupside down. 



An' then I minded our Sally sa pratty 

an' neat an' sweeat, 
Straat as a pole an' clean as a flower 

fro' 'ead to feeat : 
An' then I minded the fust kiss I gied 

'er by Thursby thurn ; 
Theer wur a lark a-singin' 'is best of 

a Sunday at mum, 
Couldn't see 'im, we 'eard 'im a- 

mountin' oop 'igher an' 'igher, 
An' then 'e turn'd to the sun, an' 'e 

shined like a sparkle o' fire. 
" Doesn't tha see 'im," she axes, " fur 

I can see 'im % " an' I 
Seead nobbut the smile o' the sun as 

danced in 'er pratty blue eye ; 
An' I says " I mun gie tha a kiss," an' 

Sally says " Noa, thou moant," 
But I gied'er a kiss, an' then anoother, 

an' Sally says " doant ! " 



An' when we coom'd into Meeatin', at 

fust she wur all in a tew, 
But, arter, we sing'd the 'ymn togither 

like birds on a beugh ; 
An' Muggins 'e preach'd o' Hell-fire 

an' the loove o' God fur men, 
An then upo' coomin' awaay Sally 

gied me a kiss ov 'ersen. 

1 Bellowed, cried out. 

2 Sluggish, out of spirits. 



Heer wur a fall fro' a kiss to a kick 

like Saatan as fell 
Down out o' heaven i' Hell-fire — thaw 

theer's naw drinkin' i' Hell ; 
Mea' fur to kick our Sally as kep the 

wolf fro' the door, 
All along o' the drink, fur I loov'd 'er 

as well as afoor. 



Sa like a graat num-cumpus I blub- 

ber'd awaay o' the bed — 
" Weant niver do it naw moor; " 

an' Sally loookt up an' she said, 
" I'll upowd it 1 tha weant ; thou'rt 

like the rest o' the men, 
Thou'll goa sniffin' about the tap till 

tha does it agean. 
Theer's thy hennemy, man, an' I 

knaws, as knaws tha sa well, 
That, if tha seeas 'im an' smells 'im 

tha'll f oiler 'im slick into Hell." 



" Naay," says I, " fur I weant goa" 

sniffin' about the tap." 
" Weant tha 1 " she says, an' mysen I 

thowt i' mysen " mayhap." 
"Noa:" an' I started awaay like a 

shot, an' down to the Hinn, 
An' I browt what tha seeas stannin' 

theer, yon big black bottle o' 

gin. 



" That caps owt," 2 says Sally, an' saw 

she begins to cry, 
But I puts it inter 'er 'ands 'an I says 

to 'er, " Sally," says I, 
" Stan' 'im theer i' the naame o' the 

Lord an' the power ov 'is 

Graace, 
Stan' 'im theer, fur I'll loook my 

hennemy strait i' the faace, 
Stan' 'im theer i' the winder, an' let 

ma loook at 'im then, 
'E seeams naw moor nor watter, an J 

'e's the Divil's oan sen." 
J I'll uphold it. 

2 That's beyond everything. 



THE REVENGE. 



559 



An' I wur down i' tha mouth, couldn't 

do naw work an' all, 
Nasty an' snaggy an' shaaky, an' 

poonch'd my 'and wi' the hawl, 
But she wur a power o' eoomfut, an' 

sattled 'ersen o' my knee, 
An' coaxd an' coodled me oop till 

agean I feel'd mysen free. 

xv. 

An' Sally she tell'd it about, an' f oalk 

stood a-gawmin' 1 in, 
As thaw it wur summat bewitch'd 

istead of a quart o' gin ; 
An' some on 'em said it wur watter — 

an' I wur chousin' the wife, 
Fur I couldn't 'owd 'ands off gin, wur 

it nobbut to saave my life ; 
An' blacksmith 'e strips me the thick 

ov 'is airm, an' 'e shaws it to me, 
" Feeal thou this ! thou can't graw 

this upo' watter ! " says he. 
An' Doctor 'e calls o' Sunday an' just 

as candles was lit, 
" Thou moant do it," he says, " tha 

mun break 'im off bit by bit." 
" Thou'rt but a Methody-man," says 

Parson, and laays down 'is 'at, 
An' 'e points to the bottle o' gin, "but 

I respecks tha fur that ; " 
An' Squire, his oan very sen, walks 

down fro' the 'All to see, 
An' 'e spanks 'is 'and into mine, " fur 

I respecks tha," says 'e ; 
An' coostom agean draw'd in like a 

wind fro' far an' wide, 
And browt me the booots to be cob- 
bled fro' hafe the coontryside. 



An' theer 'e stans an' theer 'e shall 

stan to my dying daay ; 
I 'a gotten to loov 'im agean in 

anoother kind of a waay, 
Proud on 'im, like, my lad, an' I 

keeaps 'im clean an' bright, 
Loovs 'im, an' roobs 'im, an' doosts 

'im, an' puts 'im back i' the light. 

1 Staring vacantly. 



Wouldn't a pint a' sarved as well as a 

quart '? Naw doubt : 
But I liked a bigger feller to fight wi' 

an' fowt it out. 
Fine an' meller 'e mun be by this, if I 

cared to taaste, 
But I moant, my lad, and I weant, fur 

I'd feal mysen clean dis- 

graaced. 

XVIII. 

An' once I said to the Missis, " My 

lass, when I cooms to die, 
Smash the bottle to smithers, the 

Divil's in 'im," said I. 
But arter I chaiinged my mind, an' if 

Sally be left aloan, 
I'll hev 'im a-buried wi'mma an' taake 

'im afoor the Throan. 

XIX. 

Coom thou 'eer — yon laady a-steppin' 

along the streeat, 
Doesn't tha knaw 'er — sa pratty, an' 

f eat, an ' "neat, an' sweeat ? 
Look at the cloaths on 'er back, 

thebbe ammost spick-span-new, 
An' Tommy's faace be as fresh as a 

codlin wesh'd i' the dew. 



'Ere be our Sally an' Tommy, an' we 

be a-goin to dine, 
Baacon an' taates, an' a beslings-pud- 

din' 1 an' Adam's wine ; 
But if tha wants ony grog tha mun 

goa, fur it down to the Hinn, 
Fur I weant shed a drop on 'is blood, 

noa, not fur Sally's oan kin. 



THE REVENGE. 

A BALLAD OF THE FLEET. 

At Flore s in the Azores Sir Richard 

Grenville lay, 
And a pinnance, like a flutter'd bird, 

came flying from far away : 

1 A pudding made with the first milk of 
the cow after calving. 



560 



THE REVENGE. 



" Spanish ships of war at sea ! we 

have sighted fif ty-three ! " 
Then sware Lord Thomas Howard : 

" Tore God I am no coward; 
But I cannot meet them here, for my 

ships are out of gear, 
And the half my men are sick. I 

must fly, but follow quick. 
We are six ships of the line ; can we 

fight with fifty-three 1 " 



Then spake Sir Richard Grenville : " I 

know you are no coward ; 
You fly them for a moment to fight 

with them again. 
But TVe ninety men and more that 

are lying sick ashore. 
I should count myself the coward if I 

left them, my Lord Howard, 
To these Inquisition dogs and the 

devildoms of Spain." 



So Lord Howard past away with five 

ships of war that day, 
Till he melted like a cloud in the 

silent summer heaven ; 
But Sir Richard bore in hand all his 

sick men from the land 
Very carefully and slow, 
Men of Bidef ord in Devon, 
And we laid them on the ballast down 

below ; 
For we brought them all aboard, 
And they blest him in their pain, that 

they were not left to Spain, 
To the thumbscrew and the stake, for 

the glory of the Lord. 



He had only a hundred seamen to 
work the ship and to figbt, 

And he sailed away from Flores till 
the Spaniard came in sight, 

With his huge sea-castles heaving 
upon the Aveather bow. 

" Shall we fight or shall we fly 1 

Good Sir Richard, tell us now, 

For to fight is but to die ! 



There'll be little of us left by the 

time this sun be set." 
And Sir Richard said again : " We be 

all good English men. 
Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the 

children of the devil, 
For I never turn'd my back upon 

Don or devil yet/' 



Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and 

we roar'd a hurrah, and so 
The little Revenge ran on sheer into 

the heart of the foe, 
With her hundred fighters on deck, 

and her ninety sick below ; 
For half of their fleet to the right 

and half to the left were seen, 
And the little Revenge ran on thro' 

the long sea-lane between. 



Thousands of their soldiers look'd 

down from their decks and 

laugh'd, 
Thousands of their seamen made 

mock at the mad little craft 
Running on and on, till delay'd 
By their mountain-like San Philip 

that, of fifteen hundred tons, 
And up-shadowing high above us with 

her yawning tiers of guns, 
Took the breath from our sails, and 

we stay'd. 



And while now the great San Philip 
hung above us like a cloud 

Whence the thunderbolt will fall 

Long and loud, 

Four galleons drew away 

From the Spanish fleet that day, 

And two upon the larboard and two 
upon the starboard lay, 

And the battle-thunder broke from 
them all. 



But anon the great San Philip, she be- 
thought herself and went 

Having that within her womb that 
had left her ill content ; 



THE REVENGE. 



561 



And the rest they came aboard us, and 

they fought us hand to hand, 
For a dozen times they came with 

their pikes and musqueteers, 
And a dozen times we shook 'em off 

as a dog that shakes his ears 
When he leaps from the water to the 

land. 



And the sun went down, and the stars 

came out far over the summer 

sea, 
But never a moment ceased the fight 

of the one and the fifty-three. 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, 

their high-built galleons came, 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, 

with her battle-thunder and 

flame; 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, 

drewbackwith her dead and her 

shame. 
For some were sunk and many were 

shatter'd, and so could fight us 

no more — 
God of battles, was ever a battle like 

this in the world before % 



For he said " Fight on ! fight on ! " 
Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck ; 
And it chanced that, when half of the 

short summer night was gone, 
With a grisly wound to be drest he 

had left the deck, 
But a bullet struck him that was 

dressing it suddenly dead, 
And himself he was wounded again in 

the side and the head, 
And he said " Fight on ! fight on ! " 



And the night went down, and the sun 

smiled out far over the summer 

sea, 
And the Spanish fleet with broken 

sides lay round us all in a ring ; 
But they dared not touch us again, 

for they fear'd that we still 

could sting, 



So they watch' d what the end would be. 
And we had not fought them in vain, 
But in perilous plight were we, 
Seeing forty of our poor hundred were 

slain, 
And half of the rest of us maim'd for 

life 
In the crash of the cannonades and 

the desperate strife ; 
And the sick men clown in the hold 

were most of them stark and 

cold, 
And the pikes were all broken or bent, 

and the powder was all of it 

spent ; 
And the masts and the rigging were 

lying over the side ; 
But Sir Richard cried in his English 

pride, 
" We have fought such a fight for a 

day and a night 
As may never be fought again ! 
We have won great glory, my men ! 
And a day less or more 
At sea or ashore, 
We die — does it matter when % 
Sink me the ship, Master Gunner — 

sink her, split her in twain ! 
Fall into the hands of God, not into 

the hands of Spain ! " 



And the gunner said "Ay, ay," but 

the seamen made reply : 
" We have children, we have wives, 
And the Lord hath spared our lives. 
We will make the Spaniard promise, 

if we yield, to let us go ; 
We shall live to fight again and to 

strike another blow." 
And the lion there lay dying, and they 

yielded to the foe. 



And the stately Spanish men to their 

flagship bore him then, 
Where they laid him by the mast, old 

Sir Richard caught at last, 
And they praised him to his face with 

their courtly foreign grace ; 
But he rose upon their decks, and iio 

cried : 



562 



THE SISTERS. 



" I have f ought for Queen and Faith 

like a valiant man and true ; 
I have only done my duty as a man is 

bound to do : 
With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard 

Grenville die ! " 
And he fell upon their decks, and he 

died. 



And they stared at the dead that had 

been so valiant and true, 
And had holden the power and glory 

of Spain so cheap 
That he dared her with one little ship 

and his English few; 
Was he devil or man ? He was devil 

for aught they knew, 
But they sank his body with honor 

down into the deep, 
And they mann'd the Revenge with a 

swarthier alien crew, 
And away she saiPd with her loss and 

long'd for her own ; 
When a wind from the lands they had 

ruin'd awoke from sleep, 
And the water began to heave and the 

weather to moan, 
And or ever that evening ended a 

great gale blew, 
And a wave like the Avave that is 

raised by an earthquake grew, 
Till it smote on their hulls and their 

sails and their masts and their 

flags, 
And the whole sea plunged and fell on 

the shot-shatter'd navy of Spain, 
And the little Revenge herself went 

down by the island crags 
To be lost evermore in the main. 



THE SISTERS. 

They have left the doors ajar; and 

by their clash, 
And prelude on the keys, I know the 

song, 
Their favorite — which I call " The 

Tables Turned." 
Evelyn begins it " diviner Air." 



O diviner Air, 

Thro' the heat, the drowth, the dust, 

the glare, 
Ear from out the west in shadowing 

showers, 
Over all the meadow baked and bare, 
Making fresh and fair 
All the bowers and the flowers, 
Fainting flowers, faded bowers, 
Over all this weary world of ours, 
Breathe, diviner Air ! 

A sweet voice that — you scarce could 

better that. 
Now follows Edith echoing Evelyn. 

EDITH. 

diviner light, 

Thro' the cloud that roofs our noon 
with night, 

Thro' the blotting mist, the blinding 
showers, 

Far from out a sky for ever bright, 

Over all the woodland's floodedbowers, 

Over all the meadow's drowning flow- 
ers, 

Over all this ruin'd world of ours, 

Break, diviner light ! 

Marvellously like, their voices — and 

themselves ! 
Tho' one is somewhat deeper than the 

other, 
As one is somewhat graver than the 

other — 
Edith thanEvelyn. Your good Uncle, 

whom 
You count the father of your fortune, 

longs 
For this alliance : let me ask you then, 
Which voice most takes you 1 for I 

do not doubt 
Being a watchful parent, you are 

taken 
With one or other : tho' sometimes I 

fear 
You may be flickering, fluttering in a 

doubt 
Between the two — which must not be 

— which might 



THE SISTERS. 



563 



Be death to one : they both are beau- 
tiful : 

Evelyn is gayer, wittier, prettier, says 

The common voice, if one may trust 
it : she ? 

No ! but the paler and the graver, 
Edith. 

Woo her and gain her then : no 
wavering, boy ! 

The graver is perhaps the one for you 

Who jest and laugh so easily and so 
well. 

For love will go by contrast, as by 
likes. 

No sisters ever prized each other 
more. 

Not so: their mother and her sister 
loved 

More passionately still. 

But that my best 

And oldest friend, your Uncle, wishes 
it, 

And that I know you worthy every- 
way 

To be my son, I might, perchance, be 
loath 

To part them, or part from them : and 
yet one 

Should marry, or all the broad lands 
in your view 

From this bay window — which our 
house has held 

Three hundred years — will pass col- 
laterally. 

My father with a child on either 

knee, 
A hand upon the head of either child, 
Smoothing their locks, as golden as 

his own 
Were silver, " get them wedded " 

would he say. 
And once my prattling Edith ask'd 

him " why 1 " 
Ay, why ? said he, " for why should I 

go lame 1 " 
Then told them of his wars, and of 

his wound. 
For see — this wine — the grape from 

whence it flow'd 
Was blackening on the slopes of 

Portugal, 



When that brave soldier, down the 

terrible ridge 
Plunged in the last fierce charge at 

Waterloo, 
And caught the laming bullet. He 

left me this, 
Which yet retains a memory of its 

youth, 
As I of mine, and my first passion. 

Come ! 
Here's to your happy union with my 

child ! 

Yet must you change your name : 

no fault of mine ! 
You say that you can do it as willingly 
As birds make ready for their bridal- 
time 
By change of feather : for all that, 

my boy, 
Some birds are sick and sullen when 

they moult. 
An old and worthy name ! but mine 

that stirr'd 
Among our civil wars and earlier too 
Among the Roses, the more venerable. 
/ care not for a name — no fault of 

mine. 
Once more — a happier marriage than 

my own ! 

You see yon Lombard poplar on the 

plain. 
The highway running by it leaves a 

breadth 
Of sward to left and right, where, long 

ago, 
One bright May morning in a world 

of song, 
I lay at leisure, watching overhead 
The aerial poplar wave, an amber 

spire. 

I dozed ; I woke. An open landau- 
let 

Whirl'd by, which, after it had past 
me, show'd 

Turning my way, the loveliest face 
on earth. 

The face of one there sitting opposite, 

On whom I brought a strange unhap- 
piness, 

That time I did not see. 



564 



THE SISTERS. 



Love at first sight 
May seem — with goodly rhyme and 

reason for it — 
Possible — at first glimpse, and for a 

face 
Gone in a moment — strange. Yet 

once, when first 
I came on lake Llanberris in the dark, 
A moonless night with storm — one 

lightning-fork 
Flash'd out the lake ; and tho' I 

loiter' d there 
The full day after, yet in retrospect 
That less than momentary thunder- 
sketch 
Of lake and mountain conquers all 

the day. 

The Sun himself has limn'd the face 

for me. 
Not quite so quickly, no, nor half as 

well. 
For look you here — the shadows are 

too deep, 
And like the critic's blurring comment 

make 
The veriest beauties of the work 

appear 
The darkest faults : the sweet eyes 

frown : the lips 
Seem but a gash. My sole memorial 
Of Edith — no, the other, — both 

indeed. 

So that bright face was flash'd thro' 
sense and soul 

And by the poplar vanish'd — to be 
found 

Long after, as it seem'd, beneath the 
tall 

Tree-bowers, and those long-sweeping 
beechen boughs 

Of our New Forest. I was there 
alone : 

The phantom of the whirling landau- 
let 

For ever past me by : when one quick 
peal 

Of laughter drew me thro' the glim- 
mering glades 

Down to the snowlike sparkle of a 
cloth 



On fern and foxglove. Lo, the face 

again, 
My Rosalind in this Arden — Edith 

— all 
One bloom of youth, health, beauty, 

happiness, 
And moved to merriment at a passing 

jest. 

There one of those about her know 

ing me 
Call'd me to join them; so with these 

I spent 
What seem'd my crowning hour, my 

day of days. 

I woo'd her then, nor unsuccess- 
fully, 

The worse for her, for me ! was I con- 
tent ? 

Ay — no, not quite ; for now and then 
I thought 

Laziness, vague love-longings, the 
bright May, 

Had made a heated haze to magnify 

The charm of Edith — that a man's 
ideal 

Is high in Heaven, and lodged with 
Plato's God, 

Not findable here — content, and not 
content, 

In some such fashion as a man may 
be 

That having had the portrait of his 
friend 

Drawn by an artist, looks at it, and 
says, 

" Good ! very like ! not altogether he." 

As yet I had not bound myself by 

words, 
Only, believing I loved Edith, made 
Edith love me. Then came the day 

when I, 
Flattering myself that all my doubts 

were fools 
Born of the fool this Age that doubts 

of all — 
Not I that day of Edith's love or 

mine — 
Had braced my purpose to declare 

myself : 



THE SISTERS, 



565 



I stood upon the stairs of Paradise. 
The golden gates would open at a 

word. 
I spoke it — told her of my passion, 

seen 
And lost and found again, had got so 

far, 
Had caught her hand, her eyelids 

fell — I heard 
Wheels, and a noise of welcome at 

the doors — 
On a sudden after two Italian years 
Had set the blossom of her health 

again, 
The younger sister, Evelyn, enter'd 

— there, 
There was the face, and altogether 

she. 
The mother fell about the daughter's 

neck, 
The sisters closed in one another's 

arms, 
Their people throng'd about them 

from the hall, 
And in the thick of question and 

reply 
I fled the house, driven by one angel 

face, 
And all the Furies. 

I was bound to her; 
I could not free myself in honor — 

bound 
Not by the sounded letter of the word, 
But counterpressures of the yielded 

hand 
That timorously and faintly echoed 

mine, 
Quick blushes, the sweet dwelling of 

her eyes 
Upon me when she thought I did not 

see — 
Were these not bonds ? nay, nay, but 

could I wed her 
Loving the other 1 do her that great 

wrong ? 
Had I not dream'd I loved her yester- 

morn ? 
Had I not known where Love, at first 

a fear, 
Grew after marriage to full height 

and form 1 



Yet after marriage, that mock-sister 

there — 
Brother-in-law — the fiery nearness of 

it — 
Unlawful and disloyal brotherhood — 
What end but darkness could ensue 

from this 
For all the three ? So Love and Honor 

jarr'd 
Tho' Love and Honor join'd to raise 

the full 
High-tide of doubt that sway'd me up 

and down 
Advancing nor retreating. 

Edith wrote: 
" My mother bids me ask " (I did not 

tell you — 
A widow with less guile than many a 

child. 
God help the wrinkled children that 

are Christ's 
As well as the plump cheek — she 

wrought us harm, 
Poor soul, not knowing) " are you 

ill ? " (so ran 
The letter) " you have not been here 

of late. 
You will not find me here. At last I 

go 
On that long-promised visit to the 

North. 
I told your wayside story to my 

mother 
And Evelyn. She remembers you. 

Farewell. 
Pray come and see my mother. Al- 
most blind 
With ever-growing cataract, yet she 

thinks 
She sees you when she hears. Again 

farewell." 

Cold words from one I had hoped to 

warm so far 
That I could stamp my image on her 

heart ! 
" Pray come and see my mother, and 

farewell." 
Cold, but as welcome as free airs of 

heaven 
After a dungeon's closeness. Selfish, 

strange J 



566 



THE SISTERS. 



What dwarfs are men ! my strangled 

vanity 
Utter'd a stifled cry — to have vext 

myself 
And all in vain for her — cold heart 

or none — 
No bride for me. Yet so my path 

was clear 
To win the sister. 

Whom I woo'd and won. 
For Evelyn knew not of my former 

suit, 
Because the simple mother work'd upon 
By Edith pray'd me not to whisper of it. 
And Edith would be bridesmaid on 

the day. 
But on that day, not being all at 

ease, 
I from the altar glancing back upon 

her, 
Before the first " I will " was utter'd, 

saw 
The bridesmaid pale, statuelike, pas- 
sionless — 
" No harm, no harm " I turn'd again, 

and placed 
My ring upon the finger of my bride. 

So, when we parted, Edith spoke 

no word, 
She wept no tear, but round my 

Evelyn clung 
In utter silence for so long, I thought 
" What, will she never set her sister 

free 1 " 

We left her, happy each in each, 
and then, 

As tho' the happiness of each in each 

Were not enough, must fain have tor- 
rents, lakes, 

Hills, the great things of Nature and 
the fair, 

To lift us as it were from common- 
place, 

And help us to our joy. Better have 
sent 

Our Edith thro' the glories of the 
earth, 

To change with her horizon, if true 
Love 

Were not his own imperial all-in-all. 



Far off we went. My God, I would 
not live 
Save that I think this gross hard- 
seeming world 
Is our misshaping vision of the Powers 
Behind the world, that make our griefs 
our gains. 

For on the dark night of our mar 

riage-day 
The great Tragedian, that had 

quench' d herself 
In that assumption of the bridesmaid 

— she 
That loved me — our true Edith — 

her brain broke 
With over-acting, till she rose and 

fled 
Beneath a pitiless rush of Autumn 

rain 
To the deaf church — to be let in — 

to pray 
Before that altar — so I think ; and 

there 
They found her beating the hard Pro- 
testant doors. 
She died and she was buried ere we 

knew. 

I learnt it first. I had to speak. 

At once 
The bright quick smile of Evelyn, 

that had sunned 
The morning of our marriage, past 

away : 
And on our home-return the daily 

want 
Of Edith in the house, the garden, 

still 
Haunted us like her ghost; and by 

and by, 
Either from that necessity for talk 
Which lives with blindness, or plain 

innocence 
Of nature, or desire that her lost 

child 
Should earn from both the praise of 

heroism, 
The mother broke her promise to the 

dead, 
And told the living daughter with 

what love 



THE VILLAGE WIFE; OF, THE ENTAIL. 



567 



Edith had welcomed my brief wooing 

of her, 
And all her sweet self-sacrifice and 

death. 

Henceforth that mystic bond be- 
twixt the twins — 
Did I not tell you they were twins 1 

— prevail'd 

So far that no caress could win my 

wife 
Back to that passionate answer of full 

heart 
I had from her at first. Not that her 

love, 
Tho' scarce as great as Edith's power 

of love, 
Had lessen 'd, but the mother's gar- 
rulous wail 
For ever woke the unhappy Past 

again, 
Till that dead bridesmaid, meant to 

be my bride, 
Put forth cold hands between us, and 

I fear'd 
The very fountains of her life were 

chill'd; 
So took her thence, and brought her 

here, and here 
She bore a child, whom reverently we 

call'd 
Edith ; and in the second year was 

born 
A second — this I named from her 

own self, 
Evelyn ; then two weeks — no more 

— she joined, 

In and beyond the grave, that one 

she loved. 
Now in this quiet of declining life, 
Thro' dreams by night and trances of 

the day, 
The sisters glide about me hand in 

hand, 
Both beautiful alike, nor can I tell 
One from the other, no, nor care to tell 
One from the other, only know they 

come, 
They smile upon me, till, remembering 

all 
The love they both have borne me, 

and the love 



I bore them both — divided as I am 
From either by the stillness of the 

grave — 
I know not which of these I love the 

best. 

But you love Edith; and her own 
true eyes 

Are traitors to her ; our quick Ev- 
elyn — 

The merrier, prettier, wittier, as they 
talk, 

And not without good reason, my 
good son — 

Is yet untouch'd : and I that hold 
them both 

Dearest of all things — well, I am not 
sure — 

But if there lie a preference either way, 

And in the rich vocabulary of Love 

" Most dearest " be a true superla- 
tive — 

I think I likewise love your Edith 
most. 



THE VILLAGE WIFE 
THE ENTAIL, i 



OR, 



'Ouse-keeper sent tha my lass, fur 
New Squire coom'd last night. 

Butter an' heggs — yis — yis. I'll 
goa, wi' tha back : all right ; 

Butter I warrants be prime, an' I war- 
rants the heggs be as well, 

Hafe a pint o' milk runs out when ya 
breaks the shell. 



Sit thysen down fur a bit : hev a glass 

o' cowslip wine ! 
I liked the owd Squire an' 'is gells as 

thaw they was gells o' mine, 
Fur then we was all es one, the Squire 

an' 'is darters an' me, 
Hall but Miss Annie, the heldest, I 

niver not took to she : 
But Nelly, the last of the cletch 2 I 

liked 'er the fust on 'em all, 

1 See note to " Northern Cobbler." 

2 A brood of chickens. 



568 



THE VILLAGE WLFE; OR, THE ENTAIL. 



Fur hoffens we talkt o' my darter es 

died o' the fever at fall : 
An' I thowt 'twur the will o' the Lord, 

but Miss Annie she said it wur 

draains, 
Fur she hedn't naw coomf ut in 'er, an' 

arn'd naw thanks fur 'er paains. 
Eh ! thebbe all wi' the Lord my childer, 

I han't gotten none ! 
Sa new Squire's coom'd wi' 'is taail in 

'is 'and, an' owd Squire's gone. 



Fur 'staate be i' taail, nry lass : tha 

dosn' knaw what that be 1 
But I knaws the law, I does, for the 

lawyer ha towd it me. 
" When theer's naw 'ead to a 'Ouse by 

the fault o' that ere maale — 
The gells they counts fur nowt, and 

the next un he taakes the taail." 



What be the next un like ? can tha 

tell ony harm on 'im lass ? — 
Naay sit down — naw 'urry — sa 

cowd ! — hev another glass ! 
Straange an' cowd fur the time ! we 

may happen a fall o' snaw — 
Not es I cares fur to hear ony harm, 

but I likes to knaw. 
An' I 'oaps es 'e beant boooklarn'd : 

but 'e dosn' not coom fro' the 

shere ; 
We' anew o' that wi' the Squire, an' 

we haates boooklarnin' ere. 



Fur Squire wur a Varsity scholard, an' 

niver lookt arter the land — 
Whoats or turmuts or taates — e' 'ed 

hallus a boook i' 'is 'and, 
Hallus aloan wi' 'is boooks, thaw nigh 

upo' seventy year. 
An' boooks, what's boooks 1 thou 

knaws thebbe neyther 'ere nor 

theer. 



An' the gells, they hadn't naw taails, 
an' the lawyer he towd it me 



That 'is taail were soa tied up es he 
couldn't cut down a tree ! 

"Drat the trees," says I, to be sewer I 
haates 'em, my lass, 

Fur we puts the muck o' the land an' 
they sucks the muck fro' the 



An' Squire wur hallus a-smilin', an' 

gied to the tramps goin' by — 
An' all o' the wust i' the parish — wi' 

hoffens a drop in 'is eye. 
An' ivry darter o' Squire's hed her 

awn ridin-erse to 'ersen, 
An' they rampaged about wi' their 

grooms, an' was 'untin' arter 

the men, 
An' hallus a-dallackt * an' dizen'd out, 

an' a-buyin' new cloathes, 
While 'e sit like a graat glimmer- 
gowk 2 wi' 'is glasses athurt 'is 

noase, 
An' 'is noase sa grufted wi' snuff as it 

couldn't be scroob'd awaay, 
Fur atween 'is readin' an' writin' 'e 

snifft up a box in a daay, 
An' 'e niver runn'd arter the fox, nor 

arter the birds wi' 'is gun, 
An' 'e niver not shot one 'are, but 'e 

leaved it to Charlie 'is son, 
An' 'e niver not fish'd 'is awn ponds, 

but Charlie 'e cotch'd the pike, 
For 'e warn't not burn to the land, an' 

'e didn't take kind to it like ; 
But I ears es 'e'd gie fur a howry 3 owd 

book thutty pound an' moor, 
An' 'e'd wrote an owd book, his awn 

sen, sa I knaw'd es 'e'd coom 

to be poor; 
An' 'e gied — I be fear'd to tell tha 'ow 

much — fur an owd scratted 

stoan, 
An' 'e digg'd up a loomp i' the land 

an' 'e got a brown pot an' g 

boan, 
An' 'e bowt owd money, es wouldn'1 

goii, wi' good gowd o' the 

Queen, 

1 Overdressed in gay colore. * Owl. 

» Filthy. 



THE VILLAGE WIFE; OR, THE ENTAIL, 



569 



An' 'e bowt little statutes all-naakt 

an' which was a shaame to be 

seen ; 
But 'e niver loookt ower a bill, nor 'e 

niver not seed to owt, 
An' 'e niver knawYl nowt but boooks, 

an' boooks, as thou knaws, 

beant nowt. 

VIII. 

But owd Squire's laady es long es she 

lived she kep 'em all clear, 
Thaw es long es she lived I never lied 

none of 'er darters 'ere ; 
But arter she died we was all es one, 

the childer an' me, 
An' sarvints runn'd in an' out, an' 

offens we hed 'em to tea. 
Lawk ! 'ow I laugh'd when the lasses 

'ud talk o' their Missis's waays, 
An' the Missisis talk'd o' the lasses. — 

I'll tell tha some o' these daays. 
Hoanly Miss Annie were saw stuck 

oop, like 'er mother af oor — 
'Er an' 'er blessed darter — they niver 

derken'd my door. 



An' Squire 'e smiled an' 'e smiled till 

'e'd gotten a fright at last, 
An' 'e calls fur 'is son, fur the 'turney's 

letters they f oller'd sa fast ; 
But Squire wur afear'd o' 'is son, 

an' 'e says to 'im, meek as a 

mouse, 
" Lad, thou mun cut off thy taail, or 

the gells 'nil goa to the 'Ouse, 
Fur I finds es I be that i' debt, es I 

'oaps es thou'll 'elp me a bit, 
An' if thou'll 'gree to cut off thy taail 

I may saave mysen yit." 



But Charlie 'e sets back 'is ears, 'an 'e 

swears, an' 'e says to im " Noa. 
I've gotten the 'staate by the taail an' 

be dang'd if I iver let goa ! 
Coom ! coom ! feyther," 'e says, "why 

shouldn't thy boooks be sowd ? 
I hears es sooni o' thy boooks mebbe 

worth their weight i' gowd." 



Heaps an' heaps o' boooks, I ha' see'd 

'em, belong'd to the Squire, 
But the lasses 'ed teard out leaves i' 

the middle to kindle the fire ; 
Sa moast on 'is owd big boooks f etch'd 

nigh to nowt at the saale, 
And Squire were at Charlie agean to 

git 'im to cut off 'is taail. 

XII. 

Ya wouldn't find Charlie's likes — 'e 

were that outdacious at oara, 
Not thaw ya went fur to raake out Hell 

wi' a small-tooth coamb — 
Droonk wi' the Quoloty's wine, an' 

droonk wi' the farmer's aale, 
Mad wi' the lasses an' all — an' "e 

wouldn't cut off the taail. 

XIII. 

Thou's coom'd oop by the beck ; and 

a thurn be a-grawin' theer, 
I niver ha seed it sa white wi' the 

Maay es I see'd it to-year — 
Theerabouts Charlie joompt — and it 

gied me a scare tother night, 
Fur I thowt it wur Charlie's ghoast i' 

the clerk, fur it loookt sa white. 
" Billy," says 'e, " hev a joomp ! " — 

thaw the banks o' the beck be 

sa high, 
Fur he ca'd 'is 'erse Billy-rough-un, 

thaw niver a hair wur awry ; 
But Billy fell bakkuds o' Charlie, an' 

Charlie 'e brok 'is neck, 
Sa theer wur a hend o' the taail, fur 

'e lost 'is taail i' the beck. 



Sa 'is taail wur lost an' 'is boooks wur 

gone an' 'is boy wur dead, 
An' Squire 'e smiled an' 'e smiled, but 

'e niver not lift oop 'is 'ead : 
Hallus a soft un Squire ! an' 'e smiled, 

fur 'e hedn't naw friend, 
Sa feyther an' son was buried togither, 

an' this wur the hend. 



An' Parson as hesn't the call, nor the 
mooney, but lies the pride, 



570 



IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL. 



'E reads of a sewer an' sartan 'oap o' 

the tother side; 
But I beant that sewer es the Lord, 

howsiver they praay'd an 5 

praay'd, 
Lets them inter 'eaven easy es leaves 

their debts to be paaid. 
Siver the inou'ds rattled down upo' 

poor owd Squire i' the wood, 
An' I cried along wi' the gells, fur 

they weant niver coom to naw 

good. 

XVI. 

Fur Molly the long un she walkt 

awaay wi' a hofflcer lad, 
An' nawbody 'eard on 'er sin, sa o' 

coorse she be gone to the bad ! 
An' Lucy wur laame o' one leg, sweet- 

'arts she niver 'ed none — 
Straange an' unheppen * Miss Lucy ! 

we naamed her " Dot an' gaw 

one I" 
An' Hetty wur weak i' the hattics, 

wi'out ony harm i' the legs, 
An' the fever 'ed. baaked Jinny's 'ead 

as bald as one o' them heggs, 
An' Nelly wur up fro' the craadle as 

big i' the mouth as a cow, 
An' saw she mun hammergrate, 2 lass, 

or she weant git a maate ony- 

how! 
An' es for Miss Annie es call'd me 

afoor my awn foalks to my 

faace 
" A hignorant village wife as 'ud hev 

to be larn'd her awn plaace," 
Hes for Miss Hannie the heldest hes 

now be a grawin sa howd, 
I knaws that mooch o' shea, es it beant 

not fit to be towd ! 



Sa I didn't not taake it kindly ov owd 

Miss Annie to saay 
Es I should be talkin agean 'em, es 

soon es they went awaay, 
Fur, lawks ! 'ow I cried when they 

went, an' our Nelly she gied me 

'er 'and, 



1 Ungainly, awkward. 



Emigrate. 



Fur I'd ha done owt for the Squire an' 
'is gells es belong'd to the land ; 

Boooks, es I said afoor, thebbe ney- 
ther 'ere nor theer ! 

But I sarved 'em wi' butter an' heggs 
fur huppuds o* twenty year. 



An' they hallus paaid what I hax'd, 

sa I hallus deal'd wi' the Hall, 
An' they knaw'd what butter wur, an' 

they knaw'd what a hegg wur 

an' all; 
Hugger-mugger they lived, but they 

wasn't that easy to please, 
Till I gied 'em Hinjian curn, an' they 

laaid big heggs es tha seeas ; 
An' I niver puts saame 1 i' my butter, 

they does it at Willis's farm, 
Taaste another drop o' the wine — 

tweant do tha na harm. 



Sa new Squire's coom'd wi' 'is taail in 

'is 'and, an' owd Squire's gone; 
I heard 'im a roomlin' by, but arter 

my nightcap wur on ; 
Sa I han't clapt eyes on 'im yit, fur he 

coom'd last night sa laate — 
Fluksh ! ! ! 2 the hens i' the peas ! why 

didn't tha hesp tha gaate ? 



IN THE CHILDREN'S 
HOSPITAL. 



Our doctor had call'd in another, I 

never had seen him before, 
But he sent a chill to my heart when 

I saw him come in at the door, 
Fresh from the surgery-schools of 

France and of other lands — 
Harsh red hair, big voice, big chest, 

big merciless hands ! 
Wonderful cures he had done, O yes, 

but they said too of him 

1 Lard. 

2 A cry accompanied by a clapping of Lands 
to scare trespassing fowl. 



IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL. 



571 



He was happier using the knife than 

in trying to save the limb, 
And that I can well believe, for he 

look'd so coarse and so red, 
I could think he was one of those who 

would break their jests on the 

dead, 
And mangle the living dog that had 

loved him and fawn'd at his 

knee — 
Drench'd with the hellish oorali — that 

ever such things should be ! 



Here was a boy — I am sure that some 

of our children would die 
But for the voice of Love, and the 

smile, and the comforting eye — 
Here was a boy in the ward, every 

bone seem'd out of its place — 
Caught in a mill and crush'd — it was 

all but a hopeless case : 
And he handled him gently enough ; 

but his voice and his face were 

not kind, 
And it was but a hopeless case, he 

had seen it and made up his 

mind, 
And he said to me roughly " The lad 

will need little more of your 

care." 
" All the more need," I told him, " to 

seek the Lord Jesus in praye^ ; 
They are all his children here, and I 

pray for them all as my own :" 
But he turn'd to me, " Ay, good woman, 

can prayer set a broken bone? " 
Then he mutler'd half to himself, but 

I know that I heard him say 
"All very well — but the good Lord 

Jesus has had his day." 



Had ? has it come 1 It has only 
dawn'd. It will come by and 

^ b ^ 

O how could I serve in the wards if the 

hope of the world were a lie ? 
How could I bear with the sights and 

the loathsome smells of disease 
But that He said "Ye do it to me, 

when ye do it to these " ? 



So he went. And we past to this 
ward where the younger chil- 
dren are laid : 

Here is the cot of our orphan, our dar- 
ling, our meek little maid ; 

Empty you see just now ! We have 
lost her who loved her so 
much — 

Patient of pain tho' as quick as a sen- 
sitive plant to the touch; 

Hers was the prettiest prattle, it often 
moved me to tears, 

Hers was the gratefullest heart I have 
found in a child of her years — 

Nay you remember our Emmie ; you 
used to send her the flowers ; 

How she would smile at 'em, play 
with 'em, talk to 'em hours 
after hours ! 

They that can wander at will where the 
works of the Lord are reveal'd 

Little guess what joy can be got from 
a cowslip out of the fields ; 

Elowers to these " spirits in prison " 
are all they can know of the 
spring, 

They freshen and sweeten the wards 
like the waft of an Angel's 
wing ; 

And she lay with a flower in one hand 
and her thin hands crost on her 
breast — 

Wan, but as pretty as heart can de- 
sire, and we thought her at rest, 

Quietly sleeping — so quiet, our doc- 
tor said " Poor little dear, 

Nurse, I must do it to-morrow ; she'll 
never live thro' it, I fear." 



I walk'd with our kindly old doctor as 
far as the head of the stair, 

Then I return'd to the ward ; the child 
didn't see I was there. 



Never since I was nurse, had I been 
so grieved and so vext ! 

Emmie had heard him. Softly she 
call'd from her cot to the next, 



572 



DEDICATORY POEM TO THE PRINCESS ALICE. 



" He says I shall never live thro' it, 

Annie, what shall I do 1 " 
Annie consicler'cl. " If I," said the 

wise little Annie, " was you, 
I should cry to the dear Lord Jesus to 

help me, for, Emmie, you see, 
It's all in the picture there ; ' Little 

children should come to me.' " 
(Meaning the print that you gave us, 

I find that it always can please 
Our children, the dear Lord Jesus 

with children about his knees. ) 
" Yes, and I will," said Emmie, " but 

then if I call to the Lord, 
How should he know that it's me *? 

such a lot of beds in the ward ! " 
That was a puzzle for Annie. Again 

she consider'd and said : 
" Emmie, you put out your arms, and 

you leave 'em outside on the 

bed — 
The Lord has so much to see to ! but, 

Emmie, you tell it him plain, 
It's the little girl with her arms lying 

out on the counterpane." 



I had sat three nights by the child — 

I could not watch her for four — 
My brain had begun to reel — I felt I 

could do it no more. 
That was my sleeping-night, but I 

thought that it never would 

pass. 
There was a thunderclap once, and a 

clatter of hail on the glass, 
And there was a phantom cry that I 

heard as I tost about, 
The motherless bleat of a lamb in the 

storm and the darkness with- 
out; 
My sleep was broken beside with 

dreams of the dreadful knife 
And fears for our delicate Emmie who 

scarce would escape with her 

life; 
Then in the gray of the morning it 

seem'd she stood by me and 

smiled, 
And the doctor came at his hour, and 

we went to see to the child. 



He had brought his ghastly tools : we 

believed her asleep again — 
Her dear, long, lean, little arms lying 

out on the counterpane , 
Say that His day is done ! Ah why 

should we care what they say '? 
The Lord of the children had heard 

her, and Emmie had past away 



DEDICATORY POEM TO THE 
PRINCESS ALICE. 

Dead Princess, living Power, if that, 

which lived 
True life, live on — and if the fatal 

kiss, 
Born of true life and love, divorce 

thee not 
Erom earthly love and life — if what 

we call 
The spirit flash not all at once from 

out 
This shadow into Substance — then 

perhaps 
The mellow'd murmur of the people's 

praise 
From thine own State, and all our 

breadth of realm, 
Where Love and Longing dress thy 

deeds in light, 
Ascends to thee; and this March 

morn that sees 
Thy Soldier-brother's bridal orange- 
bloom 
Break thro' the yews and cypress of 

thy grave, 
And thine Imperial mother smile 

again, 
May send one ray to thee ! and who 

can tell — 
Thou — England's England -loving 

daughter — thou 
Dying so English thou wouldst have 

her flag 
Borne on thy coffin — where is he can 

swear 
But that some broken gleam from our 

poor earth 
May touch thee, while remembering 

thee, I lay 



THE DEFENCE OF LUCK NOW. 



573 



At thy pale feet this ballad of the 

deeds 
Of England, and her banner in the 

East ? 



THE DEFENCE OE LUCKNOW. 



Bannee of England, not for a season, 

O banner of Britain, hast thou 
Floated in conquering battle or flapt 

to the battle-cry ! 
Never with mightier glory than when 

we had rear'd thee on high 
Flying at top of the roofs in the 

ghastly siege of Lucknow — 
Shot thro' the staff or the halyard, 

but ever we raised thee anew, 
And ever upon the topmost roof our 

banner of England blew. 

ii. 
Frail were the works that defended 

the hold that we held with our 

lives — 
Women and children among us, God 

help them, our children and 

wives ! 
Hold it we might — and for fifteen 

days or for twenty at most. 
" Never surrender, I charge you, but 

every man die at his post ! " 
Voice of the dead whom we loved, 

our Lawrence the best of the 

brave : 
.Cold were his brows when we kiss'd 

him — we laid him that night 

in his grave. 
" Every man die at his post ! " and 

there hail'd on our houses and 

halls 
Death from their rifle-bullets, and 

death from their cannon-balls, 
Death in our innermost chamber, and 

death at our slight barricade, 
Death while we stood with the mus- 
ket, and death while we stoopt 

to the spade, 
Death to the dying, and wounds to 

the wounded, for often there 

fell, 



Striking the hospital wall, crashing 

thro' it, their shot and their 

shell, 
Death — for their spies were among 

us, their marksmen were told 

of our best, 
So that the brute bullet broke thro' 

the brain that could think for 

the rest ; 
Bullets would sing by our foreheads, 

and bullets would rain at our 

feet — 
Fire from ten thousand at once of the 

rebels that girdled us round — 
Death at the glimpse of a finger from 

over the breadth of a street, 
Death from the heights of the mosque 

and the palace, and death in 

ground ! 
Mine ? yes, a mine ! Countermine ! 

down, down ! and creep thro' 

the hole ! 
Keep the revolver in hand ! you can 

hear him — the murderous mole! 
Quiet, ah ! quiet — wait till the point 

of the pickaxe be thro' ! 
Click with the pick, coming nearer 

and nearer again than before — 
Now let it speak, and you fire, and the 

dark pioneer is no more ; 
And ever upon the topmost roof our 

banner of England blew J 



Ay, but the foe sprung his mine many 
times, and it chanced on a day 

Soon as the blast of that underground 
thunderclap echo'd away, 

Dark thro' the smoke and the sulphur 
like so many fiends in their 
hell — 

Cannon-shot, musket-shot, volley on 
volley, and yell upon yell — 

Fiercely on all the defences our myr- 
iad enemy fell. 

What have they done ? where is it ? 
Out yonder. Guard the Redan ! 

Storm at the Water-gate ! storm at the 
Bailey-gate ! storm, and it ran 

Surging and swaying all round us, as 
ocean on every side 



574 



THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNOW. 



Plunges and heaves at a bank that is 

daily drown'd by the tide — 
So many thousands that if they be bold 

enough, who shall escape ? 
Kill or be kilFd, live or die, they shall 

know we are soldiers and men ! 
Ready ! take aim at their leaders — 

their masses are gapp'd with 

our grape — 
Backward they reel like the wave, like 
. the wave flinging forward again , 
Flying and foil'd at the last by the 

handful they could not subdue ; 
And ever upon the topmost roof our 

banner of England blew. 



Handful of men as we Avere, we were 

English in heart and in limb, 
Strong with the strength of the race 

to command, to obey, to endure, 
Each of us fought as if hope for the 

garrison hung but on him ; 
Still — could we watch at all points ? 

we were every day fewer and 

fewer. 
There was a whisper among us, but 

only a whisper that past : 
" Children and wives — if the tigers 

leap into the fold unawares — 
Every man die at his post — and the 

foe may outlive us at last — 
Better to fall by the hands that they 

love, than to fall into theirs ! " 
Roar upon roar in a moment two 

mines by the enemy sprung 
Clove into perilous chasms our walls 

and our poor palisades. 
Rifleman, true is your heart, but be 

sure that your hand be as true ! 
Sharp is the fire of assault, better aimed 

are your flank fusillades — 
Twice do we hurl them to earth from 

the ladders to which they had 

clung, 
Twice from the ditch where they shel- 
ter we drive them with hand- 
grenades ; 
And ever upon the topmost roof our 

banner of England blew. 



Then on another wild morning another 

wild earthquake out-tore 
Clean from our lines of defence ten or 

twelve good paces or more. 
Rifleman, high on the roof, hidden 

there from the light of the 

sun — 
One has leapt up on the beach, crying 

out : "Follow me, follow me! "— 
Mark him — he falls ! then another, 

and him too, and down goes he. 
Had they been bold enough then, who 

can tell but the traitors had 

won ? 
Boardings and rafters and doors — an 

embrasure ! make way for the 

gun ! 
Now double-charge it with grape ! It 

is charged and we fire, and they 

run. 
Praise to our Indian brothers, and let 

the dark face have his due ! 
Thanks to the kindly dark faces who 

fought with us, faithful and few, 
Fought with the bravest among us, 

and drove them, and smote 

them, and slew, 
That ever upon the topmost roof our 

banner in India blew. 



Men will forget what we suffer and 

not what we do. We can fight ! 
But to be soldier all day and be senti- 
nel all thro' the night — 
Ever the mine and assault, our sallies, 

their lying alarms, 
Bugles and drums in the darkness, and 

shoutings and soundings to 

arms, 
Ever the labor of fifty that had to be 

done by five, 
Ever the marvel among us that one 

should be left alive, 
Ever the day with its traitorous death 

from the loopholes around, 
Ever the night with its coffinless 

corpse to be laid in the ground, 
Heat like the mouth of a hell, or a 

deluge of cataract skies, 



SIB JOHN OLDCASTLE, LORD COBHAM. 



575 



Stench of old offal decaying, and in- 
finite torment of flies, 

Thoughts of the breezes of May blow- 
ing over an English field, 

Cholera, scurvy, and fever, the wound 
that would not be heal'd, 

Lopping away of the limb by the pit- 
iful-pitiless knife, — 

Torture and trouble in vain, — for it 
never could save us a life. 

Valor of delicate women who tended 
the hospital bed, 

Horror of women in travail among 
the dying and dead, 

Grief for our perishing children, and 
never a moment for grief, 

Toil and ineffable weariness, faltering 
hopes of relief, 

Havelock baffled, or beaten, or butch- 
er' d for all that we knew — 

Then day and night, day and night, 
coming down on the still-shat- 
ter'd walls 

Millions of musket-bullets, and thou- 
sands of cannon-balls — 

But ever upon the topmost roof our 
banner of England blew. 



Hark cannonade, fusillade ! is it true 
what was told by the scout, 

Outram and Havelock breaking their 
way through the fell mutineers? 

Surely the pibroch of Europe is ring- 
ing again in our ears ! 

All on a sudden the garrison utter a 
jubilant shout, 

Havelock's glorious Highlanders an- 
swer with conquering cheers, 

Sick from the hospital echo them, 
women and children come out, 

Blessing the wholesome white faces 
of Havelock's good fusileers, 

Kissing the war-harden'd hand of the 
Highlander wet with their tears! 

Dance to the pibroch ! — saved ! we are 
saved ! — is it you ? is it you 1 

Saved by the valor of Havelock, saved 
by the blessing of Heaven ! 

" Hold it for fifteen days ! " we have 
held it for eighty-seven ! 



And ever aloft on the palace roof the 
old banner of England blew. 



SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE, LORD 
COBHAM. 

(in wales.) 
My friend should meet me somewhere 

hereabout 
To take me to that hiding in the hills. 

I have broke their cage, no gilded 
one, I trow — 

I read no more the prisoner's mute wail 

Scribbled or carved upon the pitiless 
stone ; 

I find hard rocks, hard life, hard cheer, 
or none, 

For I am emptier than a friar's brains ; 

But God is with me in this wilderness, 

These wet black passes and foam- 
churning chasms — 

And God's free air, and hope of bet- 
ter things. 

I would I knew their speech; not 
now to glean, 

Not now — I hope to do it — some 
scatter'd ears, 

Some ears for Christ in this wild field 
of Wales — 

But, bread, merely for bread. This 
tongue that wagg'd 

They said with such heretical arro- 
gance 

Against the proud archbishop Arun- 
del— 

So much God's cause was fluent in it 
— is here 

But as a Latin Bible to the crowd ; 

" Bara ! " — what use ? The Shepherd, 
when I speak, 

Vailing a sudden eyelid with his hard 

" Dim Saesneg " passes, wroth at 
things of old — 

No fault of mine. Had he God's word 
in Welsh 

He might be kindlier : happily come 
the day! 

Not least art thou, thou little Bethle 
hem 



576 



SIR JOHN OIDCASTIE, LORD COB HAM. 



In Judah,f or in thee the Lord was born; 
Xor thou in Britain, little Lutterworth, 
Least, for in thee the word was born 
again. 

Heaven-sweet Evangel, ever-living 

Avord, 
Who whilome spakest to the South in 

Greek 
About the soft Mediterranean shores, 
And then in Latin to the Latin crowd, 
As good need was — thou hast come 

to talk our isle. 
Hereafter thou, fulfilling Pentecost, 
Must learn to use the tongues of all 

the world. 
Yet art thou thine own witness that 

thou bringest 
Not peace, a sword, a fire. 

What did he say, 
My frighted Wiclif-preacher whom I 

crost 
In flying hither 1 that one night a 

crowd 
Throng'd the Avaste field about the 

city gates : 
The king was on them suddenly with 

a host. 
Why there ? they came to hear their 

preacher. Then 
Some cried on Cobham, on the good 

Lord Cobham; 
Ay, for they love me ! but the king — 

nor voice 
Nor finger raised against him — took 

and hang'd, 
Took, hang'd and burnt — how many 

— thirty-nine — 
Call'd it rebellion — hang'd, poor 

friends, as rebels 
And burn'd alive as heretics ! for 

your Priest 
Labels — to take the king along with 

him — 
Ail heresy, treason : but to call men 

traitors 
May make men traitors. 

Eose of Lancaster, 
Red in thy birth, redder with house- 
hold war, 
Now reddest with the blood of holy 

men, 



Redder to be, red rose of Lancaster — 

If somewhere in the North, as Rumor 
sang 

Fluttering the hawks of this crown- 
lusting line — 

By firth and loch thy silver sister 
grow, 1 

That were my rose, there my allegi- 
ance due. 

Self-starved, they say — nay, mur- 
der'd, doubtless dead. 

So to this king I cleaved : my friend 
was he, 

Once my fast friend: I would have 
given my life 

To help his own from scathe, a thou- 
sand lives 

To save his soul. He might have 
come to learn 

Our Wiclif's learning: but the worldly 
Priests 

Who fear the king's hard common- 
sense should find 

What rotten piles uphold their mason- 
work, 

Urge him to foreign war. O had he 
will'd 

I might have stricken a lusty stroke 
for him, 

But he would not ; far liever led my 
friend 

Back to the pure and universal 
church, 

But he would not : whether that heir- 
less flaw 

In his throne's title make him feel so 
frail, 

He leans on Antichrist; or that his 
mind, 

So quick, so capable in soldiership, 

In matters of the faith, alas the while! 

More worth than all the kingdoms of 
this world, 

Runs in the rut, a coward to the 
Priest. 

Burnt — good Sir Roger Acton, my 
dear friend ! 
Burnt too, my faithful preacher, 
Beverley ! 

1 Richard II. 



SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE, LORD COB HAM. 



577 



Lord give thou power to thy two wit- 
nesses ! 

Lest the false faith make merry over 
them ! 

Two — nay but thirty-nine have risen 
and stand, 

Dark with the smoke of human sacri- 
fice, 

Before thy light, and cry continually — 

Cry — against whom 1 

Him, who should bear the sword 

Of Justice — what! the kingly, kindly 
boy; 

Who took the world so easily hereto- 
fore, 

My boon companion, tavern-fellow — 
him 

Who gibed and japed — in many a 
merry tale 

That shook our sides — at Pardoners, 
Summoners, 

Friars, absolution-sellers, monkeries 

And nunneries, when the wild hour 
• and the wine 

Had set the wits aflame. 

Harry of Monmouth, 

Or Amurath of the East 1 

Better to sink 

Thy fleurs-de-lys in slime again, and 
fling 

Thy royalty back into the riotous fits 

Of wine and harlotry — thy shame, 
and mine, 

Thy comrade — than to persecute the 
Lord, 

And play the Saul that never will be 
Paul. 

Burnt, burnt! and while this mitred 

Arundel 
Dooms our unlicensed preacher to 

the flame, 
The mitre-sanction'd harlot draws his 

clerks 
Into the suburb — their hard celibacy, 
Sworn to be veriest ice of pureness, 

molten 
Into adulterous living, or such crimes 
As holy Paul — a shame to speak of 

them — 
Among the heathen — 

Sanctuary granted 



To bandit, thief, assassin — yea to him 
Who hacks his mother's throat — 

denied to him, 
Who finds the Saviour in hig mother 

tongue. 
The Gospel, the Priest's pearl, flung 

down to swine — 
The swine, lay-men, lay-women, who 

will come, 
God willing, to outlearn the filthy friar. 
Ah rather, Lord, than that thy 

Gospel, meant 
To course and range thro' all the 

world, should be 
Tether'd to these dead pillars of the 

Church — 
Rather than so, if thou wilt have 

it so, 
Burst vein, snap sinew, and crack 

heart, and life 
Pass in the fire of Babylon ! but how 

long, 
O Lord, how long ! 

My friend should meet me here. 
Here is the copse, the fountain and — 

a Cross ! 
To thee, dead wood, I bow not head 

nor knees. 
Rather to thee, green boscage, work 

of God, 
Black holly, and white-flower'd way- 
faring-tree ! 
Rather to thee, thou living water, 

drawn 
By this good Wiclif mountain down 

from heaven, 
And speaking clearly in thy native 

tongue — 
No Latin — He that thirsteth, come 

and drink ! 

Eh ! how I anger'd Arundel asking 

me 
To worship Holy Cross ! I spread 

mine arms, 
God's work, I said, a cross of flesh 

and blood 
And holier. That was heresy. (My 

good friend 
By this time should be with me.) 

" Images ? " 
" Bury them as God's truer images 



578 



SIR JOHN OLD CASTLE, LORD COB HAM. 



Are daily buried." " Heresy. — 

Penance % " " Fast, 
Hairshirt and scourge — nay, let a 

man repent, 
Do penance in his heart, God hears 

him." " Heresy — 
Not shriven, not saved \" " What 

profits an ill Priest 
Between me and my God 1 I would 

not spurn 
Good counsel of good friends, but 

shrive myself 
No, not to an Apostle." "Heresy." 
(My friend is long in coming.) " Pil- 
grimages ? " 
Drink, bagpipes, revelling, devil's- 

dances, vice. 
The poor man's money gone to fat the 

friar. 
Who reads of begging saints in Scrip- 
ture ? " — " Heresy " — 
(Hath he been here — not found me 

— gone again ? 
Have I mislearnt our place of meet- 
ing 1 ) " Bread — 
Bread left after the blessing 1 " how 

they stared, 
That was their main test-question — 

glared at me ! 
" He veil'd himself in flesh, and now 

He veils 
His flesh in bread, body and bread 

together." 
Then rose the howl of all the cassock'd 

wolves, 
" No bread, no bread. God's body ! " 

Archbishop, Bishop, 
Priors, Canons, Friars, bellringers, 

Parish-clerks — 
" No bread, no bread ! " — " Authority 

of the Church, 
Power of the keys ! " — Then I, God 

help me, I 
So mock'd, so spurn'd, so baited two 

whole days — 
I lost myself and fell from evenness, 
And rail'd at all the Popes, that ever 

since 
Sylvester shed the venom of world- 
wealth 
Into the church, had only prov'n 

themselves 



Poisoners, murderers. Well — God 

pardon all — 
Me, them, and all the world — yea, 

that proud Priest, 
That mock-meek mouth of utter Anti- 
christ, 
That traitor to King Eichard and the 

truth, 
Who rose and doom'd me to the fire. 

Amen ! 
Nay, I can burn, so that the Lord of 

life 
Be by me in my death. 

Those three ! the fourth 
Was like the Son of God ! Not burnt 

were they. 
On them the smell of burning had not 

past. 
That was a miracle to convert the king. 
ThesePharisees,thisCaiaphas-Arundel 
What miracle could turn ? He here 

again, 
He thwarting their traditions of Him- 
self, * 
He would be found a heretic to Him- 
self, ' 
And doom'd to burn alive. 

So, caught, I burn. 
Burn ? heathen men have borne as 

much as this, 
For freedom, or the sake of those they 

loved, 
Or some less cause, some cause far 

less than mine ; 
For every other cause is less than 

mine. 
The moth will singe her wings, and 

singed return, 
Her love of light quenching her fear 

of pain — 
How now, my soul, we do not heed the 

fire? 
Faint - hearted % tut ! — faint - stom - 

ach'd ! faint as I am, 
God willing, I will burn for Him. 

Who comes ? 
A thousand marks are set upon my 

head. 
Friend ? — foe perhaps — a tussle for 

it then! 
Nay, but my friend. Thou art so well 

disguised, 



COLUMBUS. 



579 



I knew thee not. Hast thou brought 
bread with thee ? 

I have not broken bread for fifty hours. 

None ? I am daran'd already by the 
Priest 

For holding there was bread where 
bread was none — 

No bread. My friends await me yon- 
der ? Yes. 

Lead on then. Up the mountain ? 
Is it far l 

Not far. Climb first and reach me 
down thy hand. 

I am not like to die for lack of bread, 

For I must live to testify by fire. 1 



COLUMBUS. 

Chains, my good lord : in your raised 
brows I read 

Some wonder at our chamber orna- 
ments. 

We brought tins iron from our isles 
of gold. 

Does the king know you deign to 

visit him 
Whom once he rose from off his 

throne to greet 
Before his people, like his brother 

king 1 ? 
I saw your face that morning in the 

crowd. 

At Barcelona — tho' you were not 

then 
So bearded. Yes. The city deck'd 

herself 
To meet me, roar'd my name; the 

king, the queen 
Bade me be seated, speak, and tell 

them all 
The story of my voyage, and while I 

spoke t 

The crowd's roar fell as at the " Peace, 

be still!" 
And when I ceased to speak, the king, 

the queen, 
Sank from their thrones, and melted 

into tears, 
1 He was burnt on Christmas Day, 1417. 



And knelt, and lifted hand and heart 

and voice 
In praise to God who led me thro' the 

waste. 
And then the great " Laudamus " rose 

to heaven. 

Chains for the Admiral of the 

Ocean ! chains 
For him who gave a new heaven, a 

new earth, 
As holy John had prophesied of me, 
Gave glory and more empire to the 

kings 
Of Spain than all their battles ! chains 

for him 
Who push'cl his prows into the setting 

sun, 
And made West East, and sail'd the 

Dragon's mouth, 
And came upon the Mountain of the 

World, 
And saw the rivers roll from Paradise ! 

Chains ! we are Admirals of the 

Ocean, we, 
We and our sons for ever. Ferdinand 
Hath sign'd it and our Holy Catholic 

queen — 
Of the Ocean — of the Indies — Ad- 
mirals we — 
Our title, which we never mean to 

yield, 
Our guerdon not alone for what we 

did, 
But our amends for all we might have 

done — 
The vast occasion of our stronger 

life — 
Eighteen long years of waste, seven in 

your Spain, 
Lost, showing courts and kings a truth 

the babe 
Will suck in with his milk hereafter 

— earth 
A sphere. 

Were you at Salamanca 1 No. 

We fronted there the learning of all 
Spain, 

All their cosmogonies, their astrono- 
mies : 



580 



COLUMBUS. 



Guess-work they guess'd it, but the 

golden guess 
Is morning-star to the full round of 

truth. 
No guess-work ! I was certain of my 

goal ; 
Some thought it heresy, but that 

would not hold. 
King David call'd the heavens a hide, 

a tent 
Spread over earth, and so this earth 

was flat : 
Some cited old Lactantius : could it be 
That trees grew downward, rain fell 

upward, men 
Walk'd like the fly on ceilings 1 and 

besides, 
The great Augustine wrote that none 

could breathe 
Within the zone of heat; so might 

there be 
Two Adams, two mankinds, and that 

was clean 
Against God's word : thus was I 

beaten back, 
And chiefly to my sorrow by the 

Church, 
And thought to turn my face from 

Spain, appeal 
Once more to France or England; 

but our Queen 
Recall'd me, for at last their High- 
nesses 
Were half-assured this earth might 

be a sphere. 

All glory to the all-blessed Trinity, 
All glory to the mother of our Lord, 
And Holy Church, from whom I never 

swerved 
Not even by one hair's-breadth of 

heresy, 
I have accomplished what I came to do. 

Not yet — not all — last night a 

dream — I saiPd 
On my first voyage, harass'd by the 

frights 
Of my first crew, their curses and 

their groans. 
The great flame-banner borne by Tene- 

riffe, 



The compass, like an old friend false 

at last 
In our most need, appall'd them, and 

the wind 
Still westward, and the weedy seas — 

at length 
The landbird, and the branch with 

berries on it, 
The carven staff — and last the light, 

the light 
On Guanahani ! but I changed the 

name; 
San Salvador I call'd it; and the 

light 
Grew as I gazed, and brought out a 

broad sky 
Of dawning over — not those alien 

palms, 
The marvel of that fair new nature — 

not 
That Indian isle, but our most ancient 

East 
Moriah with Jerusalem ; and I saw 
The glory of the Lord flash up, and 

beat 
Thro' all the homely town from jas- 
per, sapphire, 
Chalcedony, emerald, sardonyx, sar- 

dius, 
Chrysolite, beryl, topaz, chrysoprase, 
Jacynth, and amethyst — and those 

twelve gates, 
Pearl — and I woke, and thought — 

death — I shall die — 
I am written in the Lamb's own Book 

of Life 
To walk within the glory of the Lord 
Sunless and moonless, utter light — 

but no ! 
The Lord had sent this bright, strange 

dream to me 
To mind me of the secret vow I made 
When Spain was waging war against 

the Moor — 
I strove myself with Spain against 

the Moor. 
There came two voices from the Sep- 
ulchre, 
Two friars crying that if Spain should 

oust 
The Moslem from her limit, he, the 

fierce 



COLUMBUS. 



581 



Soldan of Egypt, would break down 

and raze 
The blessed tomb of Christ ; whereon 

I vow'd 
That, if our Princes harken'd to my 

prayer, 
Whatever wealth I brought from that 

new world 
Should, in this old, be consecrate to 

lead 
A new crusade against the Saracen, 
And free the Holy Sepulchre from 

thrall. 

Gold 1 I had brought your Princes 
gold enough 

If left alone ! Being but a Genovese, 

I am handled worse than had I been a 
Moor, 

And breach'd the belting wall of 
Cambalu, 

And given the Great Khan's palaces 
to the Moor, 

Or clutch' d the sacred crown of Pres- 
ter John, 

And cast it to the Moor : but had I 
brought 

From Solomon's now-recover'd Ophir 
all 

The gold that Solomon's navies car- 
ried home, 

Would that have gilded me ? Blue 
blood of Spain, 

Tho' quartering your own royal arms 
of Spain, 

I have not: blue blood and black blood 
of Spain, 

The noble and the convict of Cas- 
tile, 

Howl'd me from Hispaniola : for you 
know 

The flies at home, that ever swarm 
about 

And cloud the highest heads, and 
murmur down 

Truth in the distance — these out- 
buzz'd me so 

That even our prudent king, our right- 
eous queen — 

I pray'd them being so calumniated 

They would commission one of weight 
and worth 



To judge between my slander'd self 

and me — 
Fonseca my main enemy at their court, 
They send me out his tool, Bovadilla, 

one 
As ignorant and impolitic as a beast — 
Blockish irreverence, brainless greed 

— who sack'd 
My dwelling, seized upon my papers, 

loosed 
My captives, feed the rebels of the 

crown, 
Sold the crown-farms for all but noth- 
ing, gave 
All but free leave for all to work the 

mines, 
Drove me and my good brothers home 

in chains, 
And gathering ruthless gold — a sin- 
gle piece 
Weigh'd nigh four thousand Castil- 

lanos — so 
They tell me — weigh'd him down 

into the abysm — 
The hurricane of the latitude on him 

fell, 
The seas of our discovering over-roll 
Him and his gold ; the frailer caravel, 
With what was mine, came happily to 

the shore. 
There was a glimmering of God's hand. 

And God 
Hath more than glimmer'd on me. 

my lord, 
I swear to you I heard his voice be- 
tween 
The thunders in the black Veragua 

nights, 
" O soul of little faith, slow to believe ! 
Have I not been about thee from thy 

birth ? 
Given thee the keys of the great 

Ocean-sea ?- 
Set thee in light till time shall be no 

more 1 
Is it I who have deceived thee or the 

world 1 
Endure ! thou hast done so well for 

men, that men 
Cry out against thee : was it otherwise 
With mine own Son 1 " 



582 



COLUMBUS. 



And more than once in days 
Of doubt and cloud and storm, when 

drowning hope 
Sank all but out of sight, I heard his 

voice, 
" Be not cast down. I lead thee by 

the hand, 
Fear not." And I shall hear his 

voice again — 
I know that lie has led me all my life, 
I am not yet too old to work his will — 
His voice again. 

Still for all that, my lord, 
I lying here bedridden and alone, 
Cast off, put by, scouted by court and 

king — ■ 
The first discoverer starves — his fol- 
lowers, all 
Flower into fortune — our world's way 

— and I, 
Without a roof that I can call mine 

own, 
With scarce a coin to buy a meal 

withal, 
And seeing what a door for scoundrel 

scum 
I open'd to the West, thro' which the 

lust, 
Villany, violence, avarice, of your 

Spain 
Pour'd in on all those happy naked 

isles — 
Their kindly native princes slain or 

slaved, 
Their wives and children Spanish con- 
cubines, 
Their innocent hospitalities quench'd 

in blood, 
Some dead of hunger, some' beneath 

the scourge, 
Some over-labor'd, some by their own 

hands, — 
Yea, the dear mothers, crazing Nature, 

kill 
Their babies at the breast for hate of 

Spain — 
Ah God, the harmless people whom 

we found 
In Hispaniola's island-Paradise ! 
Who took us for the very Gods from 

Heaven, 



And we have sent them very fiends 

from Hell ; 
And I myself, myself not blameless, I 
Could sometimes wish I had never led 

the way. 

Only the ghost of our great Catholic 
Queen 

Smiles on me, saying, " Be thou com- 
forted ! 

This creedless people will be brought 
to Christ 

And own the holy governance of 
Rome." 

But who could dream that we, who 
bore the Cross 
Thither, were excommunicated there, 
For curbing crimes that scandalized 

the Cross, 
By him, the Catalonian Minorite, 
Rome's Vicar in our Indies ? who be- 
lieve 
These hard memorials of our truth to 

Spain 
Clung closer to us for a longer term 
Than any friend of ours at Court ? 

and yet 
Pardon — too harsh, unjust. I am 
rack'd with pains. 

You see that I have hung them by 
my bed, 
And I will have them buried in my 
grave. 

Sir, in that flight of ages which are 

God's 
Own voice to justify the dead — per- 
chance 
Spain once the most chivalric race on 

earth, 
Spain then the mightiest, wealthiest 

realm on earth, 
So made by me, may seek to unbury 

me, 
To lay me in some shrine of this old 

Spain, 
Or in that vaster Spain I leave to 

Spain. 
Then some one standing by my grave 

will say, 



THE VOYAGE OF MAELDUNE. 



583 



"Behold the bones of Christopher 

Colon " — 
"Ay, but the chains, what do they 

mean — the chains ? " — 
I sorrow for that kindly child of Spain 
Who then will have to answer, " These 

same chains 
Bound these same bones back thro' 

the Atlantic sea, 
Which he unchain'd for all the world 

to come." 

Queen of Heaven who seest the 

souls in Hell 
And purgatory, I suffer all as much 
As they do — for the moment. Stay, 

my son 
Is here anon : my son will speak for 

me 
Ablier than I can in these spasms that 

grind 
Bone against bone. You will not. 

One last word. 

You move about the Court, I pray 

you tell 
King Ferdinand who plays with me, 

that one, 
Whose life has been no play with him 

and his 
Hidalgos — shipwrecks, famines, fe- 
vers, fights, 
Mutinies, treacheries — wink'd at, and 

condoned — 
That I am loyal to him till the death, 
And ready — tho' our Holy Catholic 

Queen, 
Who fain had pledged her jewels on 

my first voyage, 
Whose hope was mine to spread the 

Catholic faith, 
Who wept with me when I returned 

in chains, 
Who sits beside the blessed Virgin 

now, 
To whom I send my prayer by night 

and day — 
She is gone — but you will tell the 

King, that I, 
Rack'd as I am with gout, and 

wrench' d with pains 
Gain'd in the service of His Highness, 

yet 



Am ready to sail forth on one last 

voyage, 
And readier, if the King would hear, 

to lead 
One last crusade against the Saracen, 
And save the Holy Sepulchre from 

thrall. 

Going ? I am old and slighted : you 

have dared 
Somewhat perhaps in coming ? my 

poor thanks ! 
I am but an alien and a Genovese. 



THE VOYAGE OF MAELDUNE. 

(founded on an ikish legend. 

A.D. 700.) 



I was the chief of the race — he had 

stricken my father dead — 
But I gather'd my fellows together, I 

swore I would strike off his 

head. 
Each one of them look'd like a king, 

and was noble in birth as in 

worth, 
And each of them boasted he sprang 

from the oldest race upon earth. 
Each was as brave in the fight as the 

bravest hero of song, 
And each of them liefer had died than 

have done one another a wrong. 
He lived on an isle in the ocean — we 

sail'd on a Friday morn — 
He that had slain my father the day 

before I was born. 



And we came to the isle in the ocean, 
and there on the shore was he. 

But a sudden blast blew us out and 
away thro' a boundless sea. 



And we came to the Silent Isle that 
we never had touch'd at before, 

Where a silent ocean always broke on 
a silent shore, 



584 



THE VOYAGE OF MAELDUNE. 



And the brooks glitter'd on in the light 

without sound, and the long- 
waterfalls 
Pour'd in a thunderless plunge to the 

base of the mountain walls, 
And the poplar and cypress unshaken 

by storm flourished up beyond 

sight, 
And the pine shot aloft from the crag 

to an unbelievable height, 
And high in the heaven above it there 

flicker'd a songless lark, 
And the cock couldn't crow, and the 

bull couldn't low, and the dog 

couldn't bark. 
And round it we went, and thro' it, but 

never a murmur, a breath — 
It was all of it fair as life, it was all 

of it quiet as death, 
And we hated the beautiful Isle, for 

whenever we strove to speak 
Our voices were thinner and fainter 

than any flittermouse-shriek ; 
And the men that were mighty of 

tongue and could raise such 

a battle-cry 
That a hundred who heard it would 

rush on a thousand lances and 

die — 
O they to be dumb'd by the charm ! 

— so fluster'd with anger were 

they 
They almost fell on each other ; but 

after we sail'd away. 



And we came to the Isle of Shouting, 
we landed, a score of wild birds 

Cried from the topmost summit with 
human voices and words ; 

Once in an hour they cried, and when- 
ever their voices peal'd 

The steer fell down at the plow and 
the harvest died from the field, 

And the men dropt dead in the valleys 
and half of the cattle went lame, 

And the roof sank in on the hearth, 
and the dwelling broke into 
flame ; 

&nd the shouting of these wild birds 
ran into the hearts of my crew, 



Till they shouted along with the shout- 
ing and seized one another and 
slew ; 

But I drew them the one from the 
other ; I saw that we could not 
stay, 

And we left the dead to the birds and 
we sail'd with our wounded 
away. 



And we came to the Isle of Flowers : 
their breath met us out on the 
seas, 

For the Spring and the middle Sum- 
mer sat each on the lap of the 
breeze ; 

And the red passion-flower to the 
cliffs, and the dark-blue cle- 
matis, clung, 

And starr'd with a myriad blossom 
the long convolvulus hung ; 

And the topmost spire of the moun- 
tain was lilies in lieu of snow, 

And the lilies like glaciers winded 
down, running out below 

Thro' the fire of the tulip and poppy, 
the blaze of gorse, and the 
blush 

Of millions of roses that sprang with- 
out leaf or a thorn from the 
bush ; 

And the whole isle-side flashing down 
from the peak without ever a 
tree 

Swept like a torrent of gems from the 
sky to the blue of the sea ; 

And we roll'd upon capes of crocus 
and vaunted our kith and our 
kin, 

And we wallow'd in beds of lilies, 
and chanted the triumph of 
Finn, 

Till each like a golden image was 
pollen'cl from head to feet 

And each was as dry as a cricket, 
with thirst in the middle-day 
heat. 

Blossom and blossom, and promise of 
blossom, but never a fruit ! 

And we hated the Flowering Isle, as 
we hated the isle that was mute, 



THE VOYAGE OF MAELDUNE. 



585 



And we tore up the flowers by the 
million and flung them in bight 
and bay, 

And we left but a naked rock, and in 
anger we sail'd away. 



And we came to the Isle of Fruits : 

all round from the cliffs and 

the capes, 
Purple or amber, dangled a hundred 

fathom of grapes, 
And the warm melon lay like a little 

sun on the tawny sand, 
And the fig ran up from the beach 

and rioted over the land, 
And the mountain arose like a jew- 

ell'd throne thro' the fragrant 

air, 
Glowing with all-color'd plums and 

with golden masses of pear, 
And the crimson and scarlet of berries 

that flamed upon bine and vine, 
But in every berry and fruit was the 

poisonous pleasure of wine ; 
And the peak of the mountain was 

apples, the hugest that ever 

were seen, 
And they prest, as they grew, on each 

other, with hardly a leaflet be- 
tween, 
And all of them redder than rosiest 

health or than utterest shame, 
And setting, when Even descended, 

the very sunset aflame ; 
And we stay'd three days, and we 

gorged and we madden'd, till 

every one drew 
His sword on his fellow to slay him, 

and ever they struck and they 

slew ; 
And myself, I had eaten but sparely, 

and fought till I sunder'd the 

fray, 
Then I bade them remember my 

father's death, and we sail'd 

away. 



And we came to the Isle of Fire : we 
were lured by the light from 
afar, 



For the peak sent up one league of 

fire to the Northern Star : 
Lured by the glare and the blare, but 

scarcely could stand upright, 
For the whole isle shudder'd and 

shook like a man in a mortal 

affright : 
We were giddy besides with the fruits 

we had gorged, and so crazed 

that at last 
There were some leap'd into the fire ; 

and away we sail'd, and we 

past 
Over that undersea isle, where the 

water is clearer than air : 
Down we look'd : what a garden ! 

bliss, what a Paradise there ! 
Towers of a happier time, low down 

in a rainbow deep 
Silent palaces, quiet fields of eternal 

sleep ! 
And three of the gentlest and best of 

my people, whate'er I could 

say, 
Plunged head down in the sea, and 

the Paradise trembled away. 



And we came to the Bounteous Isle, 

where the heavens lean low on 

the land, 
And ever at dawn from the cloud 

glitter'd o'er us a sunbright 

hand, 
Then it open'd and dropt at the side 

of each man, as he rose from 

his rest, 
Bread enough for his need till the 

laborless day dipt under the 

West; 
And we wander'd about it and thro' 

it. never was time so 

good ! 
And we sang of the triumphs of 

Finn, and the boast of our 

ancient blood, 
And we gazed at the wandering wave 

as we sat by the gurgle of 

springs, 
And we chanted the songs of the 

Bards and the glories of fairy 

kings ; 



586 



THE VOYAGE OF MAELDUNE. 



But at length we began to be weary, 

to sigh, and to stretch and 

yawn, 
Till we hated the Bounteous Isle and 

the sunbright hand of the 

dawn, 
For there was not an enemy near, but 

the whole green Isle was our 

own, 
And we took to playing at ball, and 

we took to throwing the stone, 
And we took to playing at battle, but 

that was a perilous play, 
For the passion of the battle was in 

us, we slew and we sail'd 

away. 

IX. 

And we came to the Isle of "Witches 

and heard their musical cry — 
" Come to us, come, come " in the 

stormy red of a sky 
Dashing the fires and the shadows of 

dawn on the beautiful shapes, 
For a wild witch naked as heaven 

stood on each of the loftiest 

capes, 
And a hundred ranged on the rock 

like white sea-birds in a row, 
And a hundred gambolFd and pranced 

on the wrecks in the sand be- 
low, 
And a hundred splash'd from the 

ledges, and bosom'd the burst 

of the spray, 
But I knew we should fall on each 

other, and hastily sail'd away. 



And we came in an evil time to the 

Isle of the Double Towers, 
One was of smooth-cut stone, one 

carved all over with flowers, 
But an earthquake always moved in 

the hollows under the dells, 
And they shock'd on each other and 

butted each other with clashing 

of bells, 
And the daws flew out of the Towers 

and jangled and wrangled in 

vain, 
And the clash and boom of the bells 

rang into the heart and the brain, 



Till the passion of battle was on us, 

and all took sides with the 

Towers, 
There were some for the clean-cut 

stone, there were more for the 

carven flowers, 
And the wrathful thunder of God 

peal'd over us all the day, 
For the one half slew the other and 

after we sail'd away. 

XI. 

And we came to the Isle of a Saint 

who had sail'd with St. Brendan 

of yore, 
He had lived ever since on the Isle 

andhis winters were fifteenscore, 
And his voice was low as from other 

worlds, and his eyes were 

sweet, 
And his white hair sank to his heels 

and his white beard fell to his 

feet, 
And he spake to me, " O Maeldune, 

let be this purpose of thine ! 
Remember the words of the Lord 

when he told us ' Vengeance is 

mine ! ' 
His fathers have slain thy fathers 

in war or in single strife, 
Thy fathers have slain his fathers, 

each taken a life for a life, 
Thy father had slain his father, how 

long shall the murder last ? 
Go back to the Isle of Finn and suffer 

the Past to be Past." 
And we kiss'd the fringe of his beard 

and we pray'd as we heard him 

pray, 
And the Holy man he assoiTd us, and 

sadly we sail'd away. 



And we came to the Isle we were blown 

from, and there on the shore 

was he, 
The man that had slain my father . I 

saw him and let him be. 
weary was I of the travel, the 

trouble, the strife and the sin, 
When I landed again, with a tithe of 

my men, on the Isle of Finn. 



DE PRO FUND IS. 



587 



DE PROFUNDIS: 

THE TWO GREETINGS. 
I. 

Out of the deep, my child, out of the 

deep, 
Where all that was to be, in all that 

was, 
Whirl'd for a million aeons thro' the 

vast 
Waste dawn of multitudinous-eddy- 
ing light — 
Out of the deep, my child, out of the 

deep, 
Thro' all this changing world of 

changeless law, 
And every phase of ever-heightening 

life, 
And nine long months of antenatal 

gloom, 
With this last moon, this crescent — 

her dark orb 
Touch'd with earth's light — thou 

comest, darling boy ; 
Our own; a babe in lineament and 

limb 
Perfect, and prophet of the perfect 

man; 
Whose face and form are hers and 

mine in one, 
Indissolubly married like our love ; 
Live, and be happy in thyself, and 

serve 
This mortal race thy kin so well, that 

men 
May bless thee as we bless thee, 

young life 
Breaking with laughter from the dark; 

and may 
The fated channel where thy motion 

lives 
Be prosperously shaped, and sway thy 

course 
Along the years of haste and random 

youth 
Unshatter'd; then full-current thro' 

full man ; 
And last in kindly curves, with gen- 
tlest fall, 
By quiet fields, a slowly-dying power, 



To that last deep where we and thou 
are still. 

II. 



Out of the deep, my child, out of the 

deep, 
From that great deep, before our 

world begins, 
Whereon the Spirit of God moves as 

he will — ' 
Out of the deep, my child, out of the 

deep, 
From that true world within the world 

we see, 
Whereof our world is but the bound- 
ing shore — 
Out of the deep, Spirit, out of the deep, 
With this ninth moon, that sends the 

hidden sun 
Down yon dark sea, thou comest, 

darling boy. 



For in the world, which is not ours, 

They said 
"Let us make man " and that which 

should be man, 
From that one light no man can look 

upon, 
Drew to this shore lit by the suns and 

moons 
And all the shadows. O dear Spirit 

half -lost 
In thine own shadow and this fleshly 

sign 
That thou art thou — who wailest 

being born 
And banish'd into mystery, and the 

pain 
Of this divisible-indivisible world 
Among the numerable-innumerable 
Sun, sun, and sun, thro' finite-infinite 

space 
In finite-infinite Time — our mortal 

veil 
And shatter'd phantom of that infinite 

One, 
Who made thee unconceivably Thy- 
self 
Out of His whole World-self and all 

in all — 



588 



PREFATORY SONNET, ETC. — MONTENEGRO. 



Live thou ! and of the grain and husk, 

the grape 
And ivyberry, choose ; and still depart 
From death to death thro' life and 

life, and find 
Nearer and ever nearer Him, who 

wrought 
Not Matter, nor the finite-infinite, 
But this main-miracle, that thou art 

thou, 
With power on thine own act and on 

the world. 

THE HUMAN CRY. 



Hallowed be Thy name — Halle- 
luiah ! — 

Infinite Ideality ! 

Immeasurable Reality ! 

Infinite Personality ! 
Hallowed be Thy name — Halleluiah ! 



We feel we are nothing — for all is 

Thou and in Thee ; 
We feel we are something — that also 

has come from Thee ; 
We know we are nothing — but Thou 

wilt help us to be. 
Hallowed be Thy name — Halleluiah ! 



PREFATORY SONNET 

TO THE " NINETEENTH CENTURY." 

Those that of late had fleeted far and 

fast 
To touch all shores, now leaving to 

the skill 
Of others their old craft seaworthy still, 
Have charter'd this; where, mindful 

of the past, 
Our true co-mates regather round the 

mast; 
Of diverse tongue, but with a com- 
mon will 
Here, in this roaring moon of daffodil 
And crocus, to put forth and brave 

the blast ; 
For some, descending from the sacred 

peak 



Of hoar high-templed Faith, have 

leagued again 
Their lot with ours to rove the world 

about ; 
And some are wilder comrades, sworn 

to seek 
If any golden harbor be for men 
In seas of Death and sunless gulfs of 

Doubt. 



TO THE REV. W. H. BROOK- 
FIELD. 

Brooks, for they call'd you so that 

knew you best, 
Old Brooks, who loved so well to 

mouth my rhymes, 
How oft we two have heard St. Mary's, 

chimes ! 
How oft the Cantab supper, host and 

guest, 
Would echo helpless laughter to your 

jest ! 
How oft with him we paced that walk 

of lines, 
Him, the lost light of those dawn- 
golden times, 
Who loved you well ! Now both are 

gone to rest. 
You man of humorous-melancholy 

mark, 
Dead of some inward agony — is it so ? 
Our kindlier, trustier Jaques, past 

away ! 
I cannot laud this life, it looks so dark : 
3,kius ovap — dream of a shadow, go — 
God bless you. I shall j oin you in a day. 



MONTENEGRO. 

They rose to where their sovran eagle 
sails, 

They kept their faith, their freedom, 
on the height, 

Chaste, frugal, savage, arm'd by day 
and night 

Against the Turk ; whose inroad no- 
where scales 

Their headlong passes, but his foot- 
step fails, 



BATTLE OF BRUNANBURH. 



589 



And red with blood the Crescent reels 

from fight 
Before their dauntless hundreds, in 

prone flight 
By thousands down the crags and 

thro' the vales. 
O smallest among peoples ! rough 

rock-throne 
Of Freedom ! warriors beating back 

the swarm 
Of Turkish Islam for five hundred 

years, 
Great Tsernogora ! never since thine 

own 
Black ridges drew the cloud and brake 

the storm 
Has breathed a race of mightier 

mountaineers. 



TO VICTOK HUGO. 

Victor in Drama, Victor in Romance, 
Cloud-weaver of phantasmal hopes 
and fears, 



French of the French, and Lord of 

human tears ; 
Child-lover ; Bard whose fame-lit 

laurels glance 
Darkening the wreaths of all that 

would advance, 
Beyond our strait, their claim to be 

thy peers ; 
Weird Titan by thy winter weight of 

years 
As yet unbroken, Stormy voice of 

France ! 
Who dost not love our England — so 

they say ; 
I know not — England, France, all 

man to be 
Will make one people ere man's race 

be run : 
And I, desiring that diviner day, 
Yield thee full thanks for thy full 

courtesy 
To younger England in the boy my 



TRANSLATIONS, ETC. 



BATTLE OF BRUNANBURH. 

Constantinus, King of the Scots, after 
having sworn allegiance to Athelstan, allied 
himself with the Danes of Ireland under 
Anlaf, and invading England, was defeated 
by Athelstan and his brother Edmund with 
great slaughter at Brunanburh in the year 
937. 

I. 

Athelstan King, 
Lord among Earls, 
Bracelet-bestower and 
Baron of Barons, 
He with his brother, 
Edmund Atheling, 
Gaining a lifelong 
Glory in battle, 

1 I have more or less availed myself of my 
son's prose translation of this poem in the 
Contemporary Review (November 1876). 



Slew with the sword-edge 
There by Brunanburh, 
Brake the shield-wall, 
Hew'd the linden-wood, 1 
Hack'd the battleshield, 
Sons of Edward with hammer'd brands. 



Theirs was a greatness 
Got from their Grandsires — 
Theirs that so often in 
Strife with their enemies 
Struck for their hoards and their 
hearths and their homes. 

in. 
Bow'd the spoiler, 
Bent the Scotsman, 

1 Shields of lindenwood. 



590 



BATTLE OF BRUNANBURH. 



Fell the shipcrews 

Doom'd to the death. 
All the field with blood of the fighters 

Flow'd, from whenfirst the great 

Sun-star of morningtide, 

Lamp of the Lord God 

Lord everlasting, 
Glode over earth till the glorious 
creature 

Sank to his setting. 

IV. 

There lay many a man 
Marr'd by the javelin, 
Men of the Northland 
Shot over shield. 
There was the Scotsman 
Weary of war. 



We the West-Saxons, 
Long as the daylight 
Lasted, in companies 
Troubled the track of the host that 
we hated, 
Grimly with swords that were sharp 

from the grindstone, 
Fiercely we hack'd at the flyers before 
us. 

VI. 

Mighty the Mercian, 
Hard was his hand-play, 
Sparing not any of 
Those that with Anlaf, 
Warriors over the 
Weltering waters 
Borne in the bark's-bosom, 
Drew to this island : 
Doom'd to the death. 



Five young kings put asleep by the 

sword-stroke, 
Seven strong Earls of the army of 

Anlaf 
Fell on the war-field, numberless 

numbers, 
Shipmen and Scotsmen. 

VIII. 

Then the Norse leader, 
Dire was his need of it, 
Few were his following, 



Fled to his warship ; 
Fleeted his vessel to sea with the king 

in it, 
Saving his life on the fallow flood. 



Also the crafty one, 

Constantinus, 

Crept to his North again, 

Hoar-headed hero ! 



Slender warrant had 

He to be proud of 

The welcome of war-knives — 

He that was reft of his 

Folk and his friends that had 

Fallen in conflict, 

Leaving his son too 

Lost in the carnage, 

Mangled to morsels, 

A youngster in war ! 



Slender reason had 

He to be glad of 

The clash of the war-glaive — 

Traitor and trickster 

And spurner of treaties — 

He nor had Anlaf 

With armies so broken 

A reason for bragging 

That they had the better 

In perils of battle 

On places of slaughter — 

The struggle of standards, 

The rush of the javelins, 

The crash of the charges, 1 

The wielding of weapons — 

The play that they play'd with 

The children of Edward. 



Then with their naiPd prows 

Parted the Norsemen, a 

Blood-redden'd relic of 

Javelins over 

The jarring breaker, the deep- 
sea billow, 

Shaping their way toward Dy- 
flen 2 again, 

Shamed in their souls. 

" the gathering of men." 2 Dublin, 



ACHILLES OVER THE TRENCH. 



591 



Also the brethren, 
King and Atheling, 
Each in his glory, 
Went to his own in his own West- 
Saxonland, 

Glad of the war. 



Many a carcase they left to be carrion, 

Many a livid one, many a sallow- 
skin — 

Left for the white-tail'd eagle to tear 
it, and 

Left for the horny-nibb'd raven to 
rend it, and 

Gave to the garbaging war-hawk to 
gorge it, and 

That gray beast, the wolf of the weald. 



Never had huger 
Slaughter of heroes 
Slain by the sword-edge — 
Such as old writers 
Have writ of in histories — 
Hapt in this isle, since 
Up from the East hither 
Saxon and Angle from 
Over the broad billow 
Broke into Britain with 
Haughty w r ar-workers who 
Harried the Welshman, when 
Earls that were lured by the 
Hunger of glory gat 
Hold of the land. 



ACHILLES OVER THE 

TRENCH. 

iliad, xviii. 202. 

So saying, light-foot Iris pass'd away. 
Then rose Achilles dear to Zeus ; and 

round 
Thewarrior's puissant shouldersPallas 

flung 
Her fringed aegis, and around his 

head 
The glorious goddess wreath'd a 

golden cloud, 



And from it lighted an all-shining 

flame. 
As when a smoke from a city goes to 

heaven 
Ear off from out an island girt by 

foes, 
All day the men contend in grievous 

war 
From their own city, but with set of 

sun 
Their fires flame thickly, and aloft the 

glare 
Elies streaming, if perchance the 

neighbors round 
May see, and sail to help them in the 

war; 
So from his head the splendor went 

to heaven. 
Erom wall to dyke he stept, he stood, 

nor join'd 
The Achseans — honoring his wise 

mother's word — 
There standing, shouted, and Pallas 

far away 
Call'd ; and a boundless panic shook 

the foe. 
For like the clear voice when a trum- 
pet shrills, 
Blown by the fierce beleaguerers of a 

town, 
So rang the clear voice of iEakides ; 
And when the brazen cry of vEakides 
Was heard among the Trojans, all 

their hearts 
Were troubled, and the full-maned 

horses whirl'd 
The chariots backward, knowing griefs 

at hand ; 
And sheer-astounded were the chari- 
oteers 
To see the dread, unweariable fire 
That always o'er the great Peleion's 

head 
Burn'd, for the bright-eyed goddess 

made it burn. 
Thrice from the dyke he sent his 

mighty shout, 
Thrice backward reel'd the Trojans 

and allies ; 
And there and then twelve of their 

noblest died 
Among their spears and chariots. 



592 



TO THE PRINCESS FREDERIC A — TO DANTE. 



TO PRINCESS FREDERICA 
ON HER MARRIAGE. 

O you that were eyes and light to the 
King till he past away 
Prom the darkness of life — 
He saw not his daughter — he blest 
her: the blind King sees you 
to-day, 
He blesses the wife. 



SIR JOHN PRANKLIN. 

ON THE CENOTAPH IN WESTMINSTER 
ABBEY. 

Not here ! the white North has thy 
bones ; and thou, 
Heroic sailor-soul, 
Art passing on thine happier voyage 
now 
Toward no earthly pole. 



TO DANTE. 

(WRITTEN AT REQUEST OF THE FLORENTINES.) 

King, that hast reign'd six hundred years, and grown 

In power, and ever growest, since thine own 

Pair Florence honoring thy nativity, 

Thy Florence now the crown of Italy, 

Hath sought the tribute of a verse from me, 

I, wearing but the garland of a day, 

Cast at thy feet one flower that fades away. 



TIEESIAS AND OTHER POEMS. 

TO MY GOOD FRIEND 

ROBERT BROWNING, 

WHOSE GENIUS AND GENIALITY 

WILL BEST APPRECIATE WHAT MAY BE BEST, 

AND MAKE MOST ALLOWANCE FOR WHAT MAY BE WORST, 

THIS VOLUME 

IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED. 



TO E. FITZGERALD. 

Old Fitz, who from your suburb 
grange, 
Where once I tarried for a while, 
Glance at the wheeling Orb of change, 

And greet it with a kindly smile ; 
Whom yet I see as there you sit 
Beneath your sheltering garden- 
tree, 
And watch your doves about you flit, 
And plant on shoulder, hand and 
knee, 
Or on your head their rosy feet, 

As if they knew your diet spares 
Whatever moved in that full sheet 
Let down to Peter at his prayers ; 
Who live on milk and meal and 
grass ; 
And once for ten long weeks I tried 
Your table of Pythagoras, 

And seem'd at first 'a thing en- 
skied ' 
(As Shakespeare has it) airy-light 
To float above the ways of men, 
Then fell from that half-spiritual 
height 
Chill'd, till I tasted flesh again 



One night when earth was winter- 
black, 
And all the heavens flashed in frost ; 
And on me, half-asleep, came back 
That wholesome heat the blood had 
lost, 
And set me climbing icy capes 

And glaciers, over which there 
roll'd 
To meet me long-arm'd vines with 
grapes 
Of Eshcol hugeness ; for the cold 
Without, and warmth within me, 
wrought 
To mould the dream ; but none can 
say 
That Lenten fare makes Lenten 
thought, 
Who reads your golden Eastern 
lay, 
Than which I know no version done 

In English more divinely well ; 
A planet equal to the sun 

Which cast it, that large infidel 
Your Omar ; and your Omar drew 

Full-handed plaudits from our best 
In modern letters, and from two, 
Old friends outvaluing all the rest, 



594 



TIRESIAS. 



Two voices heard on earth no more ; 

But we old friends are still alive, 
And I am nearing seventy -four, 

While you have touch'd at seventy- 
five, 
And so I send a birthday line 

Of greeting; and my son, who dipt 
In some forgotten book of mine 

With sallow scraps of manuscript, 
And dating many a year ago, 

Has hit on this, which you will take, 
My Fitz, and welcome, as I know 

Less for its own than for the sake 
Of one recalling gracious times, 

When, in our younger London days, 
You found some merit in my rhymes, 

And I more pleasure in your praise. 



TIRESIAS. 

I wish 1 were as in the years of old, 
While yet the blessed daylight made 

itself 
Ruddy thro' both the roofs of sight, 

and woke' 
These eyes, now dull, but then so 

keen to seek 
The meanings ambush'd under all 

they saw, 
The flight of birds, the flame of sac- 
rifice, 
What omens may foreshadow fate to 

man 
And woman, and the secret of the Gods. 
My son, the Gods, despite of human 

prayer, 
Are slower to forgive than human 

kings. 
The great God, Ares, burns in anger 

still 
Against the guiltless heirs of him 

from Tyre, 
Our Cadmus, out of whom thou art, 

who found 
Beside the springs of Dirce, smote, 

and still'd 
Thro' all its folds the multitudinous 

beast, 
The dragon, which our trembling 

fathers call'd 
The God's own son. 



A tale, that told to me, 

When but thine age, by age as win- 
ter-white 

As mine is now, amazed, but made 
me yearn 

For larger glimpses of that more 
than man 

Which rolls the heavens, and lifts, 
and lays the deep, 

Yet loves and hates with mortal hates 
and loves, 

And moves unseen among the ways 
of men. 
Then, in my wanderings all the 
lands that lie 

Subjected to the Heliconian ridge 

Have heard this footstep fall, altho' 
my wont 

Was more to scale the highest of the 
heights 

With some strange hope to see the 
nearer God. 
One naked peak — the sister of the 
sun 

Would climb from out the dark, and 
linger there 

To silver all the valleys with her 
shafts — 

There once, but long ago, five-fold 
thy term 

Of years, I lay ; the winds were dead 
for heat ; 

The noonday crag made the hand 
burn; and sick 

For shadow — not one bush was near 
— I rose 

Following a torrent till its myriad falls 

Found silence in the hollows under- 
neath. 
There in a secret olive-glade I saw 

Pallas Athene climbing from the 
bath 

In anger ; yet one glittering foot dis- 
turbed 

The lucid well ; one snowy knee was 
prest 

Against the margin flowers ; a dread- 
ful light 

Came from her golden hair, her gold- 
en helm 

And all her golden armor on the 



TIRESIAS. 



595 



And from her virgin breast, and vir- 
gin eyes 
Remaining fixt on mine, till mine 

grew dark 
For ever, and I heard a voice that 

said 
' Henceforth be blind, for thou hast 

ceen too much, 
And speak the truth that no man may 

believe.' 
Son, in the hidden world of sight, 

that lives 
Behind this darkness, I behold her 

still, 
Beyond all work of those who carve 

the stone, 
Beyond all dreams of Godlike woman- 
hood, 
Ineffable beauty, out of whom, at a 

glance, 
And as it were, perforce, upon me 

flash'd 
The power of prophesying — but to 

me 
No power — so chain'd and coupled 

with the curse 
Of blindness and their unbelief, who 

heard 
And heard not, when I spake of fam- 
ine, plague, • 
Shrine-shattering earthquake, fire, 

flood, thunderbolt, 
And angers of the Gods for evil 

done 
And expiation lack'd — no power on 

Fate, 
Theirs, or mine own ! for when the 

crowd would roar 
For blood, for war, whose issue was 

their doom, 
To cast wise words among the multi- 
tude 
Was flinging fruit to lions; nor, in 

hours 
Of civil outbreak, when I knew the 

twain 
Would each waste each, and bring on 

both the yoke 
Of stronger states, was mine the voice 

to curb 
The madness of our cities and their 

kings. 



Who ever turn'd upon his heel to 

hear 
My warning that the tyranny of one 
Was prelude to the tyranny of all 1 
My counsel that the tyranny of all 
Led backward to the tyranny of one ? 
This power hath work'd no good to 

aught that lives, 
And these blind hands were useless in 

their wars. 
O therefore that the unf ulfill'd desire, 
The grief for ever born from griefs 

to be, 
The boundless yearning of the Proph- 
et's heart — 
Could that stand forth, and like a 

statue, rear'd 
To some great citizen, win all praise 

from all 
Who past it, saying, ' That was he ! ' 

In vain ! 
Virtue must shape itself in deed, and 

those 
Whom weakness or necessity have 

cramp'd , 

Within themselves, immerging, each, 

his urn 
In his own well, draw solace as he 

may. 
Menaceus, thou hast eyes, and I 

can hear 
Too plainly what full tides of onset 

sap 
Our seven high gates, and what a 

weight of war 
Rides on those ringing axles ! jingle 

of bits, 
Shouts, arrows, tramp of the horn- 
footed horse 
That grind the glebe to powder! 

Stony showers 
Of that ear-stunning hail of Ares 

crash 
Along the sounding walls. Above, 

below, 
Shock after shock, the song-built 

towers and gates 
Reel, bruised and butted with the 

shuddering 
War-thunder of iron rams ; and from 

within 
The city comes a murmur void of joy, 



596 



TIRE SI AS. 



Lest she be taken captive — maidens, 

wives, 
And mothers with their babblers of 

the dawn, 
And oldest age in shadow from the 

night, 
Falling about their shrines before 

their Gods, 
And wailing ' Save us.' 

And they wail to thee ! 
These eyeless eyes, that cannot see 

thine own, 
See this, that only in thy virtue lies 
The saving of our Thebes; for, yes- 
ternight, 
To me, the great God Ares, whose 

one bliss 
Is war, and human sacrifice — himself 
Blood-red from battle, spear and 

helmet tipt 
With stormy light as on a mast at 

sea, 
Stood out before a darkness, crying 

' Thebes, 
Thy Thebes shall fall and perish, for 

I loathe 
The seed of Cadmus — yet if one of 

these 

By his own hand — if one of these ' 

My son, 
No sound is breathed so potent to 

coerce, 
And to conciliate, as their names who 

dare 
For that sweet motherland which gave 

them birth 
Nobly to do, nobly to die. Their 

names, 
Graven on memorial columns, are a 

song 
Heard in the future ; few, but more 

than wall 
And rampart, their examples reach a 

hand 
Far thro' all years, and everywhere 

they meet 
And kindle generous purpose, and the 

strength 
To mould it into action pure as theirs. 
Fairer thy fate than mine, if life's 

best end 
Be to end well ! and thou refusing this, 



Unvenerable will thy memory be 
While men shall move the lips: but 

if thou dare — 
Thou, one of these, the race of Cad- 
mus — then 
No stone is fitted in yon marble girth 
Whose echo shall not tongue thy 

glorious doom, 
Nor in this pavement but shall ring 

thy name 
To every hoof that clangs it, and the 

springs 
Of Dirce laving yonder battle-plain, 
Heard from the roofs by night, will 

murmur thee 
To thine own Thebes, while Thebes 

thro' thee shall stand 
Firm-based with all her Gods. 

The Dragon's cave 
Half hid, they tell me, now in flowing 

vines — 
Where once he dwelt and whence he 

roll'd himself 
At dead of night — thou knowest, and 

that smooth rock 
Before it, altar-f ashion'd, where of late 
The woman-breasted Sphinx, with 

wings drawn back, 
Folded her lion paws, and look'd to 

• Thebes. 
There blanch the bones of him she 

slew, and these 
Mixt with her own, because the fierce 

beast found 
A wiser than herself, and dash'd her- 
self 
Dead in her rage : but thou art wise 

enough, 
Tho' young, to love thy wiser, blunt 

the curse 
Of Pallas, hear, and tho' I speak the 

truth 
Believe I speak it, let thine own hand 

strike 
Thy youthful pulses into rest and 

quencli 
The red God's anger, fearing not to 

plunge 
Thy torch of life in darkness, rather 

— thou 
Rejoicing that the sun, the moon, the 

stars 



THE WRECK. 



597 



Send no such light upon the ways of 
men 

As one great deed. 

Thither, my son, and there 

Thou, that hast never known the em- 
brace of love, 

Offer thy maiden life. 

This useless hand ! 

I felt one warm tear fall upon it. 
Gone ! 

He will achieve his greatness. 

But for me, 

I would that I were gather'd to my rest, 

And mingled with the famous kings 
of old, 

On whom about their ocean-islands 
flash 

The faces of the Gods — the wise 
man's word, 

Here trampled by the populace under- 
foot, 

There crown'd with worship — and 
these eyes will find 

The men I knew, and watch the 
chariot whirl 

About the goal again, and hunters race 

The shadowy lion, and the warrior- 
kings, 

In height and prowess more than hu- 
man, strive 

Again for glory, while the golden lyre 

Is ever sounding in heroic ears 

Heroic hymns, and every way the vales 

Wind, clouded with the grateful 
incense-fume 

Of those who mix all odor to the Gods 

On one far height in one far-shining 
fire. 



' One height and one far-shining fire ' 

And while I fancied that my friend 
For this brief idyll would require 

A less diffuse and opulent end, 
And would defend his judgment well, 

If I should deem it over nice — 
The tolling of his funeral bell 

Broke on my Pagan Paradise, 
And mixt the dream of classic times, 

And all the phantoms of the dream, 
With present grief, and made the 
rhymes, 

That miss'd his living welcome, 
seem 
Like would-be guests an hour too 
late, 

Who down the highway moving on 
With easy laughter find the gate 

Is bolted, and the master gone. 
Gone into darkness, that full light 

Of friendship ! past, in sleep, away 
By night, into the deeper night ! 

The deeper night ? A clearer day 
Than our poor twilight dawn on 
earth — 

If night, what barren toil to be ! 
What life, so maim'd by night, were 
worth 

Our living out ? Not mine to me 
Remembering all the golden hours 

Now silent, and so many dead, 
And him the last ; and laying flowers, 

This wreath, above his honor'd 
head, 
And praying that, when I from hence 

Shall fade with him into the un- 
known, 
My close of earth's experience 

May prove as peaceful as his own. 



THE WRECK. 

i. 

Hide me, Mother ! my Fathers belong'd to the church of old, 

I am driven by storm and sin and death to the ancient fold, 

I cling to the Catholic Cross once more, to the Faith that saves, 

My brain is full of the crash of wrecks, and the roar of waves, 

My life itself is a wreck, I have sullied a noble name, 

I am flung from the rushing tide of the world as a waif of shame, 



598 THE WRECK. 



I am roused by the wail of a child, and awake to a livid light, 

And a ghastlier face than ever has haunted a grave by night, 

I would hide from the storm without, I would flee from the storm within, 

I would make my life one prayer for a soul that died in his sin, 

I was the tempter, Mother, and mine was the deeper fall ; 

I will sit at your feet, I will hide my face, I will tell you all. 



He that they gave me to, Mother, a heedless and innocent bride — 
I never have wrong' d his heart, I have only wounded his pride — 

Spain in his blood and the Jew dark-visaged, stately and tall — 

A princelier-looking man never stept thro' a Prince's hall. 

And who, when his anger was kindled, would venture to give him the nay ? 

And a man men fear is a man to be loved by the women they say. 

And I could have loved him too, if the blossom can doat on the blight, 

Or the young green leaf rejoice in the frost that sears it at night; 

He would open the books that I prized, and toss them away with a yawn, 

Repell'd by the magnet of Art to the which my nature was drawn, 

The word of the Poet by whom the deeps of the world are stirr'd, 

The music that robes it in language beneath and beyond the word ! 

My Shelley would fall from my hands when he cast a contemptuous glance 

From where he was poring over his Tables of Trade and Finance ; 

My hands, when I heard him coming would drop from the chords or the keys, 

But ever I fail'd to please him, however I strove to please — 

All day long far-off in the cloud of the city, and there 

Lost, head and heart, in the chances of dividend, consol, and share — 

And at home if I sought for a kindly caress, being woman and weak, 

His formal kiss fell chill as a flake of snow on the cheek : 

And so, when I bore him a girl, when I held it aloft in my joy, 

He look'd at it coldly, and said to me " Pity it isn't a boy." 

The one thing given me, to love and to live for, glanced at in scorn ! 

The child that I felt I could die for — as if she were basely born ! 

I had lived a wild-flower life, I was planted now in a tomb ; 

The daisy will shut to the shadow, I closed my heart to the gloom ; 

I threw myself all abroad — I would play my part with the young 

By the low foot-lights of the world — and I caught the wreath that was flung 



Mother, I have not — however their tongues may have babbled of me - 

Sinn'd thro' an animal vileness, for all but a dwarf was he, 

And all but a hunchback too ; and I look'd at him, first, askance 

With pity — not he the knight for an amorous girl's romance ! 

Tho' wealthy enough to have bask'd in the light of a dowerless smile, 

Having lands at home and abroad in a rich West-Indian isle ; 

But I came on him once at a ball, the heart of a listening crowd — 

Why, what a brow was there! he was seated — speaking aloud 

To women, the flower of the time, and men at the helm of state — 

Flowing with easy greatness and touching on all things great, 

Science, philosophy, song — till I felt myself ready to weep 

For I knew not what, when I heard that voice, — as mellow and deep 



THE WRECK. 599 



As a psalm by a mighty master and peal'd from an organ, — roll 

Rising and falling — for, Mother, the voice was the voice of the soul; 

And the sun of the soul made day in the dark of his wonderful eyes. 

Here was the hand that would help me, would heal me — the heart that was 

wise ! 
And he, poor man, when he learnt that I hated the ring I wore, 
He helpt me with death, and he heal'd me with sorrow forevermore. 



For I broke the bond. That day my nurse had brought me the child. 
The small sweet face was flush'd, but it coo'd to the Mother and smiled. 
" Anything ailing," I ask'd her, " with baby 1 " She shook her head, 
And the Motherless Mother kiss'd it, and turn'd in her haste and fled. 



Low warm winds had gently breathed us away from the land — 
Ten long sweet summer days upon deck, sitting hand in hand — 
When he clothed a naked mind with the wisdom and wealth of his own, 
And I bow'd myself down as a slave to his intellectual throne, 
When he coin'd into English gold some treasure of classical song, 
When he flouted a statesman's error, or flamed at a public wrong, 
When he rose as it were on the wings of an eagle beyond me, and past 
Over the range and the change of the world from the first to the last, 
When he spoke of his tropical home in the canes by the purple tide, 
And the high star-crowns of his palms on the deep-wooded mountain-side, 
And cliffs all robed in lianas that dropt to the brink of his bay, 
And trees like the towers of a minster, the sons of a winterless day. 
" Paradise there ! " so he said, but I seem'd in Paradise then 
With the first great love I had felt for the first and greatest of men, 
Ten long days of summer and sin — if it must be so — 
But days of a larger light than I ever again shall know — 
Days that will glimmer, I fear, thro' life to my latest breath; 
" No frost there," so he said, " as in truest Love no Death." 



Mother, one morning a bird with a warble plaintively sweet 

Perch' d on the shrouds, and then fell fluttering down at my feet; 

I took it, he made it a cage, we fondled it, Stephen and I, 

But it died, and I thought of the child for a moment, I scarce know why. 



But if sin be sin, not inherited fate, as many will say, 

My sin to my desolate little one found me at sea on a day, 

When her orphan wail came borne in the shriek of a growing wind, 

And a voice rang out in the thunders of Ocean a«nd Heaven " Thou hast sinn'd. 

And down in the cabin were we, for the towering crest of the tides 

Plunged on the vessel and swept in a cataract off from her sides, 

And ever the great storm grew with a howl and a hoot of the blast 

In the rigging, voices of hell — then came the crash of the mast. 



600 THE WRECK. 



" The wages of sin is death," and then I began to weep, 

" I am the Jonah, the crew should cast me into the deep, 

For ah God, what a heart was mine to forsake her even for you." 

" Never the heart among women," he said, " more tender and true." 

"The heart! not a mother's heart, when I left my darling alone." 

" Comfort yourself, for the heart of the father will care for his own." 

" The heart of the father will spurn her," I cried, " for the sin of the wife, 

The cloud of the mother's shame will enfold her and darken her life." 

Then his pale face twitch'd; "O Stephen, I love you, I love you, and yet" — 

As I lean'd away from his arms — " would God, we had never met ! " 

And he spoke not — only the storm ; till after a little, I yearn'd 

For his voice again, and he call'd to me " Kiss me ! " and there — as I turn'd — 

" The heart, the heart ! " I kiss'd him, I clung to the sinking form, 

And the storm went roaring above us, and he — was out of the storm. 



And then, then, Mother, the ship stagger'd under a thunderous shock, 

That shook us asunder, as if she had struck and crashed on a rock ; 

For a huge sea smote every soul from the decks of The Falcon but one ; 

All of them, all but the man that was lash'd to the helm had gone ; 

And I fell — and the storm and the days went by, but I knew no more — 

Lost myself — lay like the dead by the dead on the cabin floor, 

Dead to the death beside me, and lost to the loss that was mine, 

With a dim dream, now and then, of a hand giving bread and wine, 

Till I woke from the trance, and the ship stood still, and the skies were blue, 

But the face I had known, Mother, was not the face that I knew. 



The strange misfeaturing mask that I saw so amazed me, that I 

Stumbled on deck, half mad. I would fling myself over and die ! 

But one — he was waving a flag — the one man left on the wreck — 

" Woman " — he graspt at my arm — " stay there " — I crouch'd on the deck 

" We are sinking, and yet there's hope : look yonder," he cried, " a sail" 

In a tone so rough that I broke into passionate tears, and the wail 

Of a beaten babe, till I saw that a boat was nearing us — then 

All on a sudden I thought, I shall look on the child again. 



They lower'd me down the side, and there in the boat I lay 

With sad eyes fixt on the lost sea-home, as we glided away, 

And I sigh'd, as the low dark hull dipt under the smiling main, 

" Had I stayed with him, I had now — with him — been out of my pain." 



They took us aboard: the crew were gentle, the captain kind ; 

But 7" was the lonely slave of an often-wandering mind; 

For whenever a rougher gust might tumble a stormier wave, 

"O Stephen," I moan'd, "I am coming to thee in thine Ocean-grave." 

And again, when a balmier breeze curl'd over a peacefuller sea, 

I found myself moaning again "0 child, I am coming to thee," 



DESPAIR. 601 



The broad white brow of the Isle — that bay with the color'd sand — 

Rich was the rose of sunset there, as we drew to the land ; 

All so quiet the ripple would hardly blanch into spray 

At the feet of the cliff ; and I pray'd — " my child " — for I still could pray — 

" May her life be as blissfully calm, be never gloom'd by the curse 

Of a sin, not hers ! " 

Was it well with the child ? 

I wrote to the nurse 
Who had borne my flower on her hireling heart ; and an answer came 
Not from the nurse — nor yet to the wife — to her maiden name ! 
I shook as I open'd the letter — I knew that hand too well, — 
And from it a scrap, dipt out of the " deaths " in a paper, fell. 
" Ten long sweet summer days " of fever, and want of care ! 
And gone — that day of the storm — Mother, she came to me there. 



DESPAIR. 



A man and his wife having lost faith in a God, and hope of a life to come, and being 
utterly miserable in this, resolve to end themselves by drowning. The woman is drowned, 
but the man rescued by a minister of the sect he had abandoned. 



Is it you, that preach'd in the chapel there looking over the sand ? 
Followed us too that night, and dogg'd us, and drew me to land ? 

ii. 

What did I feel that night ? You are curious. How should I tell ? 

Does it matter so much what I felt ? You rescued me — yet — was it well 

That you came unwish'd for, uncalPd, between me and the deep and my doom, 

Three days since, three more dark days of the Godless gloom 

Of a life without sun, without health, without hope, without any delight 

In anything here upon earth 1 but ah God, that night, that night 

When the rolling eyes of the light-house there on the fatal neck 

Of land running out into rock — they had saved many hundreds from wreck — 

Glared on our way toward death, I remember I thought, as we past, 

Does it matter how many they saved ? we are all of us wreck'd at last — 

" Do you fear," and there came thro' the roar of the breaker a whisper, a breath, 

"Fear ? am I not with you ? I am frighted at life not death." 



And the suns of the limitless Universe sparkled and shone in the sky, 
Flashing with fires as of God, but we knew that their light was a lie — 
Bright as with deathless hope — but, however they sparkled and shone, 
The dark little worlds running round them were worlds of woe like our own — 
No soul in the heaven above, no soul on the earth below, 
A fiery scroll written over with lamentation and woe. 



602 DESPAIR. 



See, we were nursed in the drear night-fold of your fatalist creed, 

And we turn'd to the growing dawn, we had hoped for a dawn indeed, 

When the light of a Sun that was coming would scatter the ghosts of the Past, 

And the cramping creeds that had madden'd the peoples would vanish at last, 

And we broke away from the Christ, our human brother and friend, 

For He spoke, or it seem'd that He spoke, of a Hell without help, without end. 



Hoped for a dawn and it came, but the promise had faded away ; 

We had past from a cheerless night to the glare of a drearier day ; 

He is only a cloud and a smoke who was once a pillar of fire, 

The guess of a worm in the dust and the shadow of its desire — 

Of a worm as it writhes in a world of the weak trodden down by the strong, 

Of a dying worm in a world, all massacre, murder, and wrong. 



O we poor orphans of nothing — alone on that lonely shore — 
Born of the brainless Nature who knew not that which she bore ! 
Trusting no longer that earthly flower would be heavenly fruit — 
Come from the brute, poor souls — no souls — and to die with the brute 



Nay, but I am not claiming your pity : I know you of old — 
Small pity for those that have ranged from the narrow warmth of your fold, 
Where you bawl'd the dark side of your faith and a God of eternal rage, 
Till you flung us back on ourselves, and the human heart, and the Age. 



But pity — the Pagan held it a vice — was in her and in me, 

Helpless, taking the place of the pitying God that should be ! 

Pity for all that aches in the grasp of an idiot power, 

And pity for our own selves on an earth that bore not a flower; 

Pity for all that suffers on land or in air or the deep, 

And pity for our own selves till we long'd for eternal sleep. 



" Lightly step over the sands ! the waters — you hear them call ! 
Life with its anguish, and horrors, and errors — away with it all ! " 
And she laid her hand in my own — she was always loyal and sweet — 
Till the points of the foam in the dusk came playing about our feet. 
There was a strong sea-current would sweep us out to the main. 
"Ah God" tho' I felt as I spoke I was taking the name in vain — 
" Ah God " and we turn'd to each other, we kiss'd, we embraced she and I. 
Knowing the Love we were used to believe everlasting would die : 



DESPAIR. 603 

We had read their know-nothing books and we lean'd to the darker side — 
Ah God, should we find Him, perhaps, perhaps, if we died, if we died ; 
We never had found Him on earth, this earth is a fatherless Hell — 
" Dear Love, forever and ever, forever and ever farewell," 
Never cry so desolate, not since the world began, 
Never a kiss so sad, no, not since the coming of man ! 



But the blind wave cast me ashore, and you saved me, a valueless life. 
Not a grain of gratitude mine ! You have parted the man from the wife. 
I am left alone on the land, she is all alone in the sea ; 
If a curse meant ought, I would curse you for not having let me be. 



Visions of youth — for my brain was drunk with the water, it seems ; 

I had past into perfect quiet at length out of pleasant dreams, 

And the transient trouble of drowning — what was it when match'd with the 

pains 
Of- the hellish heat of a wretched life rushing back thro' the veins ? 

XII. 

Why should I live ? one son had forged on his father and fled, 
And if I believed in a God, I would thank him, the other is dead, 
And there was a baby-girl, that had never look'd on the light : 
Happiest she of us all, for she past from the night to the night. 

XIII. 

But the crime, if a crime, of her eldest-born, her glory, her boast, 

Struck hard at the tender heart of the mother, and broke it almost ; 

Tho' glory and shame dying out forever in endless time, 

Does it matter so much whether crown'd for a virtue, or hang'd for a crime q 



And ruin'd by him, by him, I stood there, naked, amazed 

In a world of arrogant opulence, fear'd myself turning crazed, 

And I would not be mock'd in a madhouse ! and she, the delicate wife, 

With a grief that could only be cured, if cured, by the surgeon's knife, 



Why should we bear with an hour of torture, a moment of pain, 

If every man die forever, if all his griefs are in vain, 

And the homeless planet at length will be wheel'd thro' the silence of space, 

Motherless evermore of an ever-vanishing race, 

When the worm shall have writhed its last, and its last brother-worm will have 

fled 
From the dead fossil skull that is left in the rocks of an earth that is dead ? 



604 DESPAIR. 



Have I crazed myself over their horrible infidel writings ? O yes, 

For these are the new dark ages, you see, of the popular press, 

When the bat comes out of his cave, and the owls are whooping at noon, 

And Doubt is the lord of this dunghill and crows to the sun and the moon, 

Till the Sun and the Moon of our science are both of them turn'd into blood, 

And Hope will have broken her heart, running after a shadow of good ; 

For their knowing and know-nothing books are scatter'd from hand to hand — 

We have knelt in your know-all chapel too looking over the sand. 



What ! I should call on that Infinite Love that has served us so well ? 
Infinite cruelty rather that made everlasting Hell, 

Made us, foreknew us, foredoom'd us, and does what he will with his own 
Better our dead brute mother who never has heard us groan ! 



Hell ? if the souls of men were immortal, as men have been told, 

The lecher would cleave to his lusts, and the miser would yearn for his gold, 

And so there were Hell forever ! but were there a God as you say, 

His Love would have power over Hell till it utterly vanish'd away. 



Ah yet — I have had some glimmer, at times, in my gloomiest woe, 

Of a God behind all — after all — the great God for aught that I know ; 

But the God of Love and of Hell together — they cannot be thought, 

If there be such a God, may the Great God curse him and bring him to nought ! 



Blasphemy ! whose is the fault ? is it mine ? for why would you save 
A madman to vex you with wretched words, who is best in his grave 1 
Blasphemy ! ay, why not, being danin'd beyond hope of grace ? 
would I were yonder with her, and away from your faith and your face ! 
Blasphemy ! true ! I have scared you pale with my scandalous talk, 
But the blasphemy to my mind lies all in the way that you walk. 



Hence ! she is gone ! can I stay ? can I breathe divorced from the Past ? 
You needs must have good lynx-eyes if I do not escape you at last. 
Our orthodox coroner doubtless will find it a felode-se, 
And the stake and the cross-road, fool, if you will, does it matter to me ? 



THE ANCIENT SAGE. 



605 



THE ANCIENT SAGE. 

A thousand summers ere the time of 

Christ 
From out his ancient city came a 

Seer 
Whom one that loved, and honor'd 

him, and yet 
Was no disciple, richly garb'd, but 

worn 
From wasteful living, follow'd — in 

his hand 
A scroll of verse — till that old man 

before 
A cavern whence an affluent fountain 

pour'd 
From darkness into daylight, turn'd 

and spoke. 

This wealth of waters might but seem 

to draw 
From yon dark cave, but, son, the 

source is higher, 
Yon summit half-a-league in air — 

and higher, 
The cloud that hides it — higher still, 

the heavens 
Whereby the cloud was moulded, and 

whereout 
The cloud descended. Force is from 

the heights. 
I am wearied of our city, son, and go 
To spend my one last year among the 

hills. 
What hast thou there ? Some death- 
song for the Ghouls 
To make their banquet relish ? let 

me read. 

How far thro' all the bloom and brake 

That nightingale iB heard ! 
What power but the bird's could make 

This music in the bird? 
How summer-bright are yonder skies, 

And earth as fair in hue ! 
And yet what sign of aught that lies 

Behind the green and blue? 
But man to-day is fancy's fool 

As man hath ever been. 
The nameless Power, or Powers, that rule 

Were never heard or seen. 

If thou would'st hear the Nameless, 

and wilt dive 
Into the Temple-cave of thine own self, 



There, brooding by the central altar, 
thou 

May'st haply learn the Nameless hath 
a voice, 

By which thou wilt abide, if thou be 
wise, 

As if thou knewest, tho' thou canst 
not know ; 

For Knowledge is the swallow on the 
lake 

That sees and stirs the surface-shadow 
there 

But never yet hath dipt into the 
abysm, 

The Abysm of all Abysms, beneath, 
within 

The blue of sky and sea, the green 
of earth, 

And in the million-millionth of a grain 

Which cleft and cleft again fore 
more, 

And ever vanishing, never vanishes, 

To me, my son, more mystic than 
myself, 

Or even than the Nameless is to me. 
And when thou sendest thy free 
soul thro' heaven, 

Nor understandest bound nor bound- 
lessness, 

Thou seest the Nameless of the hun- 
dred names. 
And if the Nameless should with- 
draw from all 

Thy frailty counts most real, all thy 
world 

Might vanish like thy shadow in the 
dark. 

And since — from when this earth began — 

The Nameless never came 
Among us, never spake with man, 

And never named the Name — 

Thou canst not prove the Nameless, 

O my son, 
Nor canst thou prove the world thou 

movest in, 
Thou canst not prove that thou art 

body alone, 
Nor canst thou prove that thou art 

spirit alone 
Nor canst thou prove that thou art 

both in one : 



606 



THE ANCIENT SAGE, 



Thou canst not prove thou art im- 
mortal, no 
Nor yet that thou art mortal — nay 

my son, 
Thou canst not prove that I, who 

speak with thee, 
Am not thyself in converse with thyself, 
For nothing worthy proving can be 

proven, 
Nor yet disproven : wherefore thou 

be wise, 
Cleave ever to the sunnier side of 

doubt, 
And cling to Faith beyond the forms 

of Faith ! 
She reels not in the storm of warring 

words, 
She brightens at the clash of " Yes " 

and " No," 
She sees the Best that glimmers thro' 

the Worst, 
She feels the Sun is hid but for a 

night, 
She spies the summer thro' the winter 

bud, 
She tastes the fruit before the blos- 
som falls, 
She hears the lark within the songless 

egg, 
She finds the fountain where they 
wail'd " Mirage ! " 

What Power? aught akin to Mind, 

The mind in me and you? 
Or power as of the Grods gone blind 

Who see not what they do? 

But some in yonder city hold, my son, 
That none but Gods could build this 

house of ours, 
So beautiful, vast, various, so beyond 
All work of man, yet, like all work of 

man, 
A beauty with defect till That 

which knows, 
And is not known, but felt thro' what 

we feel 
Within ourselves is highest, shall 

descend 
On this half- deed, and shape it at the 

last 
According to the Highest in the 

Highest. 



What Power but the Years that nfake 

And break the vase of clay, 
And stir the sleeping earth, and wake 

The bloom that fades away ? 
What rulers but the Days and Hours 

That cancel weal with woe, 
And wind the front of youth with flowers, 

And cap our age with snow? 

The days and hours are ever glanc- 
ing by, 
And seem to flicker past thro' sun 

and shade, 
Or short, or long, as Pleasure leads, 

or Pain ; 
But with the Nameless is nor Day nor 

Hour; 
Tho' we, thin minds, who creep from 

thought to thought 
Break into "Thens" and "Whens" 

the Eternal Now : 
This double seeming of the single 

world ! — 
My words are like the babblings in a 

dream 
Of nightmare, when the babblings 

break the dream. 
But thou be wise in this dream-world 

of ours, 
Nor take thy dial for thy deity, 
But make the passing shadow serve 

thy will. 

The years that made the stripling wise 

Undo their work again, 
And leave him, blind of heart and eyes, 

The last and least of men ; 
Who clings to earth, and once would dare 

Hell-heat or Arctic cold, 
And now one breath of cooler air 

Would loose him from his hold ; 
His winter chills him to the root, 

He withers marrow and mind ; 
The kernel of the shrivell'd fruit 

Is jutting thro' the rind; 
The tiger spasms tear his chest, 

The palsy wags his head ; 
The wife, the sons, who love him best 

Would fain that he were dead; 
The griefs by which he once was wrung 

Were never worth the while — 

Who knows 1 or whether this earth- 
narrow life 

Be yet but yolk, and forming in the 
shell 1 

The shaft of scorn that once had stung 
But wakes a dotard smile. 



THE ANCIENT SAGE. 



607 



The placid gleam of sunset after 
storm ! 



The statesman's brain that sway'd the past 

Is feebler than his knees; 
The passive sailor wrecks at last 

In ever-silent seas; 
The warrior hath forgot his arms, 

The Learned all his lore ; 
The changing market frets or charms 

The merchant's hope no more; 
The prophet's beacon burn'd in vain, 

And now is lost in cloud ; 
The plowman passes, bent with pain, 

To mix with what he plow'd; 
The poet whom his Age would quote 

As heir of endless fame — 
He knows not ev'n the book he wrote, 

Not even his own name. 
For man has overlived his day, 

And, darkening in the light, 
Scarce feels the senses break away 

To mix with ancient Night. 

The shell must break before the bird 
can fly. 



The years that when my Youth began 

Had set the lily and rose 
By all my ways where'er they ran, 

Have ended mortal foes; 
My rose of love forever gone, 

My lily of truth and trust — 
They made her lily and rose in one, 

And changed her into dust. 
O rosetree planted in my grief, 

And growing, on her tomb, 
Her dust is greening in your leaf, 

Her blood is in your bloom. 
O slender lily waving there, 

And laughing back the light, 
In vain you tell me " Earth is fair " 

When all is dark as night. 

My son, the world is dark with griefs 

and graves, 
So dark that men cry out against the 

Heavens. 
Who knows but that the darkness is 

in man % 
The doors of Night may be the gates 

of Light ; 
For wert thou born or blind or deaf, 

and then 
Suddenly heal'd, how would'st thou 

glory in all 
The splendors and the voices of the 

world ! 
And we, the poor earth's dying race, 

and yet 



No phantoms, watching from a phan- 
tom shore 

Await the last and largest sense to 
make 

The phantom walls of this illusion 
fade, 

And show us that the world is wholly 
fair. 

But vain the tears for darken'd years 

As laughter over wine, 
And vain the laughter as the tears, 

O brother, mine or thine, 
For all that laugh, and all that weep, 

And all that breathe are one 
Slight ripple on the boundless deep 

That moves, and all is gone. 

But that one ripple on the boundless 

deep 
Feels that the deep is boundless, and 

itself 
Forever changing form, but evermore 
One with the boundless motion of the 

deep. 

Yet wine and laughter friends! and set 

The lamps alight, and call 
For golden music, and forget 

The darkness of the pall. 

If utter darkness closed the day, 

my son 

But earth's dark forehead flings 

athwart the heavens 
Her shadow crown'd with stars — and 

yonder — out 
To northward — some that never set, 

but pass 
From sight and night to lose them- 
selves in day. 
I hate the black negation of the bier, 
And wish the dead, as happier than 

ourselves 
And higher, having climb'd one step 

beyond 
Our village miseries, might be borne 

in white 
To burial or to burning, hymn'd from 

hence 
With songs in praise of death, and 

crown'd with flowers ! 



O worms and maggots of to-day 
Without their hope of wings! 



608 



THE ANCIENT SAGE. 



But louder than thy rhyme the silent 

Word 
Of that world-prophet in the heart of 

man. 

Tho' some have gleams or so they say 
Of more than mortal things. 

To-day ? but what of yesterday 1 for 
oft 

On me, when boy, there came what 
then I call'd, 

Who knew no books and no philoso- 
phies, 

In my boy-phrase " The Passion of 
the Past." 

The first gray streak of earliest sum- 
mer-dawn, 

The last long stripe of waning crim- 
son gloom, 

As if the late and early were but one — 

A height, a broken grange, a grove, a 
flower 

Had murmurs " Lost and gone and 
lost and gone ! " 

A breath, a whisper — some divine 
farewell — 

Desolate sweetness — far and far 
away — 

What had he loved, what had he lost, 
the boy 1 

I know not and I speak of what has 
been. 
And more, my son ! for more than 
once when I 

Sat all alone, revolving in myself 

The word that is the symbol of myself, 

The mortal limit of the Self was 
loosed, 

And past into the Nameless, as a cloud 

Melts into Heaven. I touch'd my 
limbs, the limbs 

Were strange not mine — and yet no 
shade of doubt, 

But utter clearness, and thro' loss of 
Self 

The gain of such large life as match'd 
with ours 

Were Sun to spark — unshadowable 
in words, 

Themselves but shadows of a shadow- 
world. 



And idle gleams will come and go, 
But still the clouds remain; 

The clouds themselves are children of 
the Sun. 

And Night and Shadow rule below 
When only Day should reign. 

And Day and Night are children of 

the Sun, 
And idle gleams to thee are light to me, 
Some say, the Light was father of the 

Night, 
And some, the Night was father of 

the Light. 
No night no day ! — I touch thy world 

again — 
No ill no good ! such counter-terms, 

my son, 
Are border-races, holding, each its 

own 
By endless war: but night enough is 

there 
In yon dark city : get thee back : and 

since 
The key to that weird casket, which 

for thee 
But holds a skull, is neither thine nor 

mine, 
But in the hand of what is more than 

man, 
Or in man's hand when man is more 

than man, 
Let be thy wail and help thy fellow 

men, 
And make thy gold thy vassal not thy 

king, 
And fling free alms into the beggar's 

bowl, 
And send the day into the darken'd 

heart ; 
Nor list for guerdon in the voice of 

men, 
A dying echo from a falling wall ; 
Nor care — for Hunger hath the Evil 

eye — 
To vex the noon with fiery gems, or 

fold 
Thy presence in the silk of sumptu- 
ous looms ; 
Nor roll thy viands on a luscious 

tongue, 



THE FLIGHT. 



609 



Nor drown thyself with flies in honied 

wine ; 
Nor thou be rageful, like a handled 

bee, 
And lose thy life by usage of thy 

sting; 
Nor harm an adder thro' the lust for 

harm, 
Nor make a snail's horn shrink for 

wantonness ; 
And more — think well ! Do-well 

will follow thought, 
And in the fatal sequence of this 

world 
An evil thought may soil thy chil- 
dren's blood ; 
But curb the beast would cast thee in 

the mire, 



And leave the hot swamp of voluptu- 
ousness 
A cloud between the Nameless and 

thyself, 
And lay thine uphill shoulder to the 

wheel, 
And climb the Mount of Blessing, 

whence, if thou 
Look higher, then — perchance — thou 

mayest — beyond 
A hundred ever-rising mountain 

lines, 
And past the range of Night and 

Shadow — see 
The high-heaven dawn of more than 

mortal day 
Strike on the Mount of Vision ! 

So, farewell. 



THE FLIGHT. 



i. 

Are you sleeping ? have you forgotten ? do not sleep, my sister dear ! 
How can you sleep ? the morning brings the day I hate and fear; 
The cock has crow'd already once, he crows before his time ; 
Awake ! the creeping glimmer steals, the hills are white with rime. 



Ah, clasp me in your arms, sister, ah, fold me to your breast! 
Ah, let me weep my fill once more, and cry myself to rest ! 
To rest ? to rest and wake no more were better rest for me, 
Than to waken every morning to that face I loathe to see : 



I envied your sweet slumber, all night so calm you lay, 
The night was calm, the morn is calm, and like another day; 
But I could wish yon moaning sea would rise and burst the shore, 
And such a whirlwind blow these woods, as never blew before. 



For, one by one, the stars went down across the gleaming pane, 
And project after project rose, and all of them were vain; 
The blackthorn-blossom fades and falls and leaves the bitter sloe, 
The hope I catch at vanishes and youth is turn'd to woe. 



610 THE FLIGHT. 



Come, speak a little comfort ! all night I pray'd with tears, 
And yet no comfort came to me, and now the morn appears, 
When he will tear me from your side, who bought me for his slave : 
This father pays his debt with me, and weds me to my grave. 



What father, this or mine, was he, who, on that summer day 
When I had fall'n from off the crag we clamber'd up in play, 
Found, fear'd me dead, and groan'd, and took and kiss'd me, and again 
He kiss'd me ; and I loved him then ; he was my father then. 



No father now, the tyrant vassal of a tyrant vice ! 
The Godless Jephtha vows his child ... to one cast of the dice. 
These ancient woods, this Hall at last will go — perhaps have gone, 
Except his own meek daughter yield her life, heart, soul to one — 



To one who knows I scorn him. O the formal mocking bow, 
The cruel smile, the courtly phrase that masks his malice now — 
But often in the sidelong eyes a gleam of all things ill — 
It is not Love but Hate that weds a bride against her will ; 



Hate, that would pluck from this true breast the locket that I wear, 
The precious crystal into which I braided Edwin's hair ! 
The love that keeps this heart alive beats on it night and day — 
One golden curl, his golden gift, before he past away. 



He left us weeping in the woods ; his boat was on the sand ; 
How slowly down the rocks he went, how loth to quit the land ! 
And all my life was darken'd, as I saw the white sail run, 
And darken, up that lane of light into the setting sun. 



How often have we watch'd the sun fade from us thro' the West, 
And follow Edwin to those isles, those islands of the Blest ! 
Is he not there ? would I were there, the friend, the bride, the wife, 
With him, where summer never dies, with Love, the Sun of life ! 



O would I were in Edwin's arms — once more — to feel his breath 
Upon my cheek — on Edwin's ship, with Edwin, ev'n in death, 
Tho' all about the shuddering wreck the death-white sea should rave, 
Or if lip were laid to lip on the pillows of the wave. 



THE FLIGHT. 611 



Shall I take him ? I kneel with him ? I swear and swear forsworn 
To love him most, whom most I loathe, to honor whom I scorn % 
The Fiend would yell, the grave would yawn, my mother's ghost would 

rise — 
To lie, to lie — in God's own house — the blackest of all lies ! 



Why — rather than that hand in mine, tho' every pulse would freeze, 
I'd sooner fold an icy corpse dead of some foul disease : ~~ 
Wed him ? I will not wed him, let them spurn me from the doors, 
And I will wander till I die about the barren moors. 



The dear, mad bride who stabb'd her bridegroom on her bridal night 
If mad, then I am mad, but sane, if she were in the right. 
My father's madness makes me mad — but words are only words ! 
I am not mad, not yet, not quite — There ! listen how the birds 



Begin to warble yonder in the budding orchard trees ! 
The lark has past from earth to Heaven upon the morning breeze- 
How gladly, were I one of those, how early would I wake ! 
And yet the sorrow that I bear is sorrow for his sake. 



They love their mates, to whom they sing ; or else their songs, that meet 
The morning with such music, would never be so sweet ! 
And tho' these fathers will not hear, the blessed Heavens are just, 
And Love is fire, and burns the feet would trample it to dust. 



A door was open'd in the house — who ? who 1 my father sleeps ! 
A stealthy foot upon the stair ! he — some one — this way creeps ! 
If he 1 yes, he . . . lurks, listens, fears his victim may have fled — 
He ! where is some sharp-pointed thing ? he comes, and finds me dead. 



Not he, not yet ! and time to act — but how my temples burn ! 
And idle fancies flutter me, I know not where to turn ; 
Speak to me, sister; counsel me; this marriage must not be. 
You only know the love that makes the world a world to me ! 



612 THE FLIGHT. 



Our gentle mother, had she lived — but we were left alone: 
That other left us to ourselves ; he cared not for his own; 
So all the summer long we roam'd in these wild woods of ours, 
My Edwin loved to call us then " His two wild woodland flowers/ 



Wild flowers blowing side by side in God's free light and air, 

Wild flowers of the secret woods, when Edwin found us. there, 

Wild woods in which we roved with him, and heard his passionate vow, 

Wild woods in which we rove no more, if we be parted now ! 



You will not leave me thus in grief to wander forth forlorn ; 
We never changed a bitter word, not one since we were born ; 
Our dying mother join'd our hands ; she knew this father well; 
She bad us love, like souls in Heaven, and now I fly from Hell, 



And you with me ; and we shall light upon some lonely shore, 
Some lodge within the waste sea-dunes, and hear the waters roar, 
And see the ships from out the West go dipping thro' the foam, 
And sunshine on that sail at last which brings our Edwin home. 



But look, the morning grows apace, and lights the old church-tower, 
And lights the clock ! the hand points five — O me — it strikes the hour 
I bide no more, I meet my fate, whatever ills betide ! 
Arise, my own true sister, come forth ! the world is wide. 



And yet my heart is ill at ease, my eyes are dim with dew, 
I seem to see a new-dug grave up yonder by the yew ! 
If we should never more return, but wander hand in hand 
With breaking hearts, without a friend, and in a distant land. 



O sweet, they tell me that the world is hard, and harsh of mind, 
But can it be so hard, so harsh, as those that should be kind? 
That matters not : let come what will ; at last the end is sure, 
And every heart that loves with truth is equal to endure. 



TOMORROW. 613 



TOMORROW. 



Her, that yer Honor was spakin' to ? Whin, yer Honor ? last year — 

Standin' here be the bridge, when last yer Honor was here ? 

An' yer Honor ye gev her the top of the mornin', " Tomorra " says she. 

What did they call her, yer Honor ? They call'd. her Molly Magee. 

An' yer Honor's the thrue ould blood that always manes to be kind, 

But there's rason in all things, yer Honor, for Molly was out of her mind. 



Shure, an' meself remimbers wan night eomin' down be the sthrame, 

An' it seems to me now like a bit of yisther-day in a dhrame — 

Here where yer Honor seen her — there was but a slip of a moon, 

But I hard thim — Molly Magee wid her batchelor, Danny O'Roon — 

" You've been takin' a dhrop o' the crathur " an' Danny says " Troth, an' I been 

Dhrinkin' yer health wid Shamus O'Shea at Katty's shebeen ; * 

But I must be lavin' ye soon." "Ochone are ye goin' away? " 

" Goin' to cut the Sassenach whate " he says " over the say " — 

"An' whin will ye meet me agin ? " an' I hard him " Molly asthore, 

Fll meet you agin tomorra," says he, "be the chapel-door." 

"An' whin are ye goin' to lave me ? " " O' Monday mornin' " says he ; 

"An' shure thin ye'll meet me tomorra? " "Tomorra, tomorra, Machree ! " 

Thin Molly's ould mother, yer Honor, that had no likin' for Dan, 

Call'd from her cabin an' tould her to come away from the man, 

An' Molly Magee kem flyin' acrass me, as light as a lark, 

An' Dan stood there for a minute, an' thin wint into the dark. 

But wirrah ! the storm that night — the tundher, an' rain that fell, 

An' the sthrames runnin' down at the back o' the glin 'ud 'a dhrownded Hell. 



But airth was at pace nixt mornin', an' Hiven in its glory smiled, 
As the Holy Mother o' Glory that smiles at her sleepin' child - — 
Ethen — she stept an the chapel-green, an' she turn'd herself roun' 
Wid a diamond dhrop in her eye, for Danny was not to be foun', 
An' many's the time that I watch'd her at mass lettin' down the tear, 
For the Divil a Danny was there, yer Honor, for forty year. 



Och, Molly Magee, wid the red o' the rose an' the white o' the May, 

An' yer hair as black as the night, an' yer eyes as bright as the day ! 

Achora, yer laste little whishper was sweet as the lilt of a bird ! 

Acushla, ye set me heart batin' to music wid ivery word ! 

An' sorra the Queen wid her sceptre in sich an illigant han', 

An' the fall of yer foot in the dance was as light as snow an the Ian', 

1 Grog-shop. 



614 TOMORROW. 



An' the sun kem out of a oloud whiniver ye walkt in the shtreet, 
An' Shamus O'Shea was yer shadda, an' laid himself undher yer feet, 
An' I loved ye meself wid a heart and a half, me darlin', and he 
'Ud 'a shot his own sowl dead for a kiss of ye, Molly Magee. 



But shure we wor betther frinds whin I crack'd his skull for her sake, 
An' he ped me back wid the best he could give at ould Donovan's wake — 
For the boys wor about her agin whin Dan didn't come to the fore, 
An' Shamus along wid the rest, but she put thim all to the door. 
An', afther, I thried her meself av the bird 'ud come to me call, 
But Molly, begorrah, 'ud listhen to naither at all, at all. 



An' her nabors an' frinds 'ud consowl an' condowl wid her, airly and late, 

" Your Danny," they says, " niver crasst over say to the Sassenach whate 

He's gone to the States, aroon, an' he's married another wife, 

An' ye'll niver set eyes an the face of the thraithur agin in life ! 

An' to dhrame of a married man, death alive, is a mortial sin." 

But Molly says " I'd his hand-promise, an' shure he'll meet me agin." 

VII. 

An' afther her paarints had inter'd glory, an' both in wan day, 
She began to spake to herself, the crathur, an' whishper, an' say 
"Tomorra, Tomorra ! " an' Father Molowny he tuk her in han', 
" Molly, you're manin'," he says, "me dear, av I undherstan', 
That ye'll meet your paarints agin an' yer Danny O'Roon afore God 
Wid his blessed Marthyrs an' Saints; " an' she gev him a frindly nod, 
" Tomorra, Tomorra," she says, an' she didn't intind to desave, 
But her wits wor dead, an' her hair was white as the snow an a grave. 



Arrah now, here last month they wor diggin' the bog, an' they foun' 
Dhrownded in black bog-wather a corp lyin' undher groun'. 

IX. 

Yer Honor's own agint, he says to me wanst, at Katty's shebeen, 

" The Divil take all the black Ian', for a blessin' 'ud come wid the green ! 

An' where 'ud the poor man, thin, cut his bit o' turf for the fire ? 

But och ! bad scran to the bogs whin they swallies the man intire ! 

An' sorra the bog that's in Hiven wid all the light an' the glow, 

An' there's hate enough, shure, widout thim in the Divil's kitchen below. 



Thim ould blind nagers in Agypt, I hard his Riverence say, 
Could keep their haithen kings in the flesh for the Jidgemint day, 
An', faix, be the piper o' Moses, they kep the cat an' the dog, 
But it 'ud 'a been aisier work av they lived be an Irish bog. 



THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS. 615 



XI. 

How-an-iver they laid this body they foun' an the grass 
Be the chapel-door, an' the people 'ud see it that wint into mass 
But a frish generation had riz, an' most of the ould was few, 
An' I didn't know him meself, an' none of the parish knew. 



But Molly kem limpin' up wid her stick, she was lamed iv a knee, 
Thin a slip of a gossoon call'd, " Div ye know him, Molly Magee ? " 
An' she stood up strait as the Queen of the world — she lifted her head — 
" He said he would meet me tomorra ! " an' dhropt down dead an the dead. 



Och, Molly, we thought, machree, ye would start back agin into life, 
Whin we laid yez, aich be aich, at yer wake like husban' an' wife. 
Sorra the dhry eye thin but was wet for the frinds that was gone ! 
Sorra the silent throat but we hard it cryin' " Ochone ! " 
An' Shamus O'Shea that has now ten childer, hansome an' tall, 
Him an' his childer wor keenin' as if he had lost thim all. 



Thin his Riverence buried thim both in wan grave be the dead boor-tree, 1 
The young man Danny O'Roon wid his ould woman, Molly Magee. 

xv. 

May all the flowers o' Jeroosilim blossom an' spring from the grass, 
Imbrashin' an' kissin' aich other — as ye did — over yer Crass ! • 
An' the lark fly out o' the flowers wid his song to the Sun an' the Moon, 
An' tell thim in Riven about Molly Magee an' her Danny O'Roon, 
Till Holy St. Pether gets up wid his kays an' opens the gate ! 
An' shure, be the Crass, that's betther nor cuttin' the Sassenach whate 
To be there wid the Blessed Mother, an' Saints an' Marthyrs galore, 
An' singin' yer " Aves " an' " Pathers " f oriver an' ivermore. 

xvi. 

An' now that I tould yer Honor whativer I hard an' seen, 

Yer Honor 'ill give me a thrifle to dhrink yer health in potheen, 



THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS. 



Milk for my sweet-arts, Bess ! fur it mun be the time about now 
When Molly cooms in fro' the far-end close wi' her paails fro' the cow. 
Eh ! tha be new to the plaace — thou'rt gaapin' — doesn't tha see 
I calls 'em arter the fellers es once was sweet upo' me 1 

1 Elder-tree. 



616 THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS. 



Naay to be sewer it be past 'er time. What maakes 'er sa laate ? 
Goa to the laane at the back, an' loook thruf Maddison's gaate ! 



Sweet-arts ! Molly belike may 'a lighted to-night upo' one. 
Sweet-arts ! thanks to the Lord that I niver not listen'd to noan ! 
So I sits i' my oan armchair wi' my oan kettle theere o' the hob, 
An' Tommy the fust, an' Tommy the second, an' Steevie an' Rob. 



Rob, coom oop 'ere o' my knee. Thou sees that i' spite o' the men 
I 'a kep' thruf thick an' thin my two 'oonderd a-year to mysen ; 
Yis ! thaw tha call'd me es pretty es ony lass i' the Shere, 
An' thou be es pretty a Tabby, but Robby I seed thruf ya theere. 



Feyther 'ud saay I wur ugly as sin, an' I beant not va'ain, 

But I niver wur downright hugly, thaw soom 'ud 'a thowt ma plaain, 

An' I wasn't sa plaain i' pink ribbons, ye said I wur pretty i' pinks, 

An' I liked to 'ear it I did, but I beant sich a fool as ye thinks ; 

Ye was stroakin ma down wi' the 'air, as I be a-stroakin o' you, 

But whiniver I loook'd i' the glass I wur sewer that it couldn't be true \ 

Niver wur pretty, not I, but ye knaw'd it wur pleasant to 'ear, 

Thaw it warn't not me es wur pretty, but my two 'oonderd a-year. 



D'ya mind the murnin' when we was a-walkin' togither, an' stood 

By the claay'd-oop pond, that the foalk be sa scared at, i' Gigglesby wood, 

Wheer the poor wench drowndid hersen, black Sal, es 'ed been disgraaced 1 

An' I feel'd thy arm es I stood wur a-creeapin about my waaist; 

An' me es wur alius afear'd of a man's gittin' ower fond, 

I sidled awaay an' awaay till I plumpt foot fust i' the pond; 

And, Robby, I niver 'a liked tha sa well, as I did that daay, 

Fur tha joompt in thysen, an' tha hoickt my feet wi' a flop fro' the claay. 

Ay, stick oop thy back, an' set oop thy taail, tha may gie ma a kiss, 

Fur I walk'd wi' tha all the way hoam an' wur niver sa nigh saayin' Yis. 

But wa boath was i' sich a clat we was shaamed to cross Gigglesby Greean, 

Fur a cat may loook at a king thou knaws but the cat mun be clean. 

Sa we boath on us kep out o' sight o' the winders o' Gigglesby Hinn — 

Naay, but the claws o' tha! quiet! they pricks clean thruf to the skin — 

An' wa boath slinkt 'oam by the brokken shed i' the laane at the back, 

Wheer the poodle runn'd at tha' once, an' thou runn'd oop o' the thack ; 

An' tha squeedg'd my 'and i' the shed, fur theere we was forced to 'ide, 

Fur I seed that Steevie wur coomin', and one o' the Tommies beside. 



Theere now, what art'a mewin at, Steevie ? for owt I can tell — 
Robby wur fust to be sewer, or I mowt 'a liked tha as well. 



THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS. 617 



But, Robby, I thowt o' tha all the while I wur chaangin' my gown, 

An' I thowt shall I chaange my staate ? but, Lord, upo' coomin' down 

My bran-new carpet es fresh es a midder o' flowers i' Maay — 

Why 'edn't tha wiped thy shoes ? it wur clatted all ower wi' claay. 

An' I could 'a cried ammost, fur I seed that it couldn't be, 

An' Robby I gied tha a raatin that sattled thy coortin o' me. ^_ 

An' Molly an' me was agreed, as we was a-cleanin' the floor, 

That a man be a durty thing an' a trouble an' plague wi' indoor. 

But I rued it arter a bit, fur I stuck to tha more na the rest, 

But I couldn't 'a lived wi' a man an' I knaws it be all fur the best. 



Naay — let ma stro'ak tha down till I maakes tha as smooth as silk, 
But if I 'ed married tha, Robby, thou'd not 'a been worth thy milk, 
Thou'd niver 'a cotch'd ony mice but 'a left me the work to do, 
And 'a taaen to the bottle beside, so es all that I 'ears be true ; 
But I loovs tha to maake thysen 'appy, an' soa purr awaay, my dear, 
Thou 'ed wellnigh purr'd ma awaay fro' my oan two 'oonderd a-year. 

x. 

SweSrin agean, you Toms, as ye used to do twelve years sin' ! 
Ye niver 'eard Steevie swear 'cep' it wur at a dog coomin' in. 
An' boath o' ye mun be fools to be hallus a-shawin' your claws, 
Fur I niver cared nothink for neither — an' one o' ye dead ye knaws ! 
Coom giv hoaver then, weant ye ? I warrant ye soom fine daay — 
Theere, lig down — I shall hev to gie one or tother awaay. 
Can't ye taake pattern by Steevie ? ye shant hev a drop fro' the paaiL 
Steevie be right good manners bang thruf to the tip o' the taail. 



Robby, git down wi'tha, wilt tha 1 let Steevie coom oop o' my knee. 
Steevie, my lad, thou 'ed very nigh been the Steevie fur me ! 
Robby wur fust to be sewer, 'e wur burn an' bred i' the 'ouse, 
But thou be es 'ansom a tabby as iver patted a mouse. 



An' I beant not vaain, but I knaws I 'ed led tha a quieter life 
Nor her wi' the hepitaph yonder ! " A f aaithf ul an' loovin' wife ! " 
An' 'cos o' thy farm by the beck, an' thy windmill oop o' the croft, 
Tha thowt tha would marry ma, did tha 1 but that wur a bit ower soft, 
Thaw thou was es soaber as daay, wi' a niced red faace, an' es clean 
Es a shillin' fresh fro' the mint wi' a bran-new 'ead o' the Queean, 
An' thy farmin' es clean es thysen, fur, Steevie, tha kep' it sa neat 
That I niver not spied sa much as a poppy along wi' the wheat, 
An' the wool of a thistle a-flyin' an' seeadin' tha haated to see ; 
'Twur as bad as a battle-twig x 'ere i' my oan blue chaumber to me. 
Ay, roob thy whiskers agean ma, fur I could 'a taaen to tha well, 
But fur thy bairns, poor Steevie, a bouncin' boy an' a gell. 

'Earwig. 



618 THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS. 



XIII. 

An' thou was es fond o' thy bairns es I be mysen o' my cats, 

But I niver not wish'd fur childer, I hevn't naw likin' fur brats ; 

Pretty anew when ya dresses 'em oop, an' they goas fur a walk, 

Or sits wi' their 'ands afoor 'em, an' doesn't not 'inder the talk ! 

But their bottles o' pap, an' their mucky bibs, an' the clats an' the clouts, 

An' their mashin' their toys to pieaces an' maakin' ma deaf wi' their shouts, 

An' hallus a-joompin' about ma as if they was set upo' springs, 

An' a haxin' ma hawkard questions, an' saayin' ondecent things, 

An' a-callin' ma " hugly " mayhap to my f aace, or a tearin' my gown — 

Dear ! dear ! dear ! I mun part them Tommies — Steevie git down. 

XIV. 

Ye be wuss nor the men-tommies, you. I telPd ya, na moor o' that ! 
Tom, lig theere o' the cushion, an' tother Tom 'ere o' the mat. 

xv. 

Theere ! I ha' master'd them I Hed I married the Tommies — Lord, 
To loove an' obaay the Tommies ! I couldn't 'a stuck by my word. 
To be horder'd about, an' waaked, when Molly 'd put out the light, 
By a man coomin' in wi' a hiccup at ony hour o' the night ! 
An' the taable staain'd wi' 'is aale, an' the mud o' 'is boots o' the stairs, 
An' the stink o' 'is pipe i' the 'ouse, an' the mark o' 'is 'ead o' the chairs ! 
An' noan o' my four sweet-arts/ud 'a let me 'a hed my oan waay, 
Sa I likes 'em best wi' taails when they 'evn't a word to saay. 



An' I sits i' my oan little parlor, an' sarved by my oan little lass, 

Wi' my oan little garden outside, an' my oan bed o' sparrow-grass, 

An' my oan door-poorch wi' the woodbine an' jessmine a-dressin' it greean, 

An' my oan fine Jackman i' purple a roabin' the 'ouse like a Queean. 

1VII. 

An' the little gells bobs to ma hoffens es I be abroad i' the laanes, 

When I goas to coomfut the poor es be down wi' their haaches an' their paains 

An' a haaf-pot o' jam, or a mossel o' meat when it beant too dear, 

They maakes ma a graater Laady nor 'er i' the mansion theer, 

Hes 'es hallus to hax of a man how much to spare or to spend; 

An' a spinster I be an' I will be, if soa please God, to the hend. 



Mew ! mew ! — Bess wi' the milk ! what ha' maade our Molly sa la'ate ? 
It should 'a been 'ere by seven, an' theere — it be strikin' height — 
" Cushie wur craazed fur 'er cauf " well — I 'eard 'er a maakin' 'er moan, 
An' I thowt to mysen " thank God that I hevn't naw cauf o' my oan." 
Theere ! 

Set it down ! 

Now Hobby ! 

You Tommies shall waait to-night 
Till Bobby an' Steevie 'es 'ed their lap — an' it sarves ye right. 



BALIN AND BALAN. 



619 



BALIN AND BALAN.i 

Pellam the King, who held and lost 
with Lot 

In that first war, and had his realm 
restored 

But render'd tributary, fail'd of late 

To send his tribute ; wherefore Ar- 
thur caird 

His treasurer, one of many years, and 
spake, 

" Go thou with him and him and 
bring it to us, 

Lest we should set one truer on his 
throne. 

Man's word is God in man." 

His Baron said 

" We go but harken : there be two 
strange knights 

Who sit near Camelot at a fountain- 
side, 

A mile beneath the forest, challeng- 
ing 

And overthrowing every knight who 
comes. 

Wilt thou I undertake them as we 



And send them to thee ? " 

Arthur laugh'd upon him. 

" Old friend, too old to be so young, 
depart, 

Delay not thou for ought, but let 
them sit, 

Until they find a lustier than them- 
selves." 
So these departed. Early, one fair 
dawn, 

The light-wing'd spirit of his youth 
return'd 

On Arthur's heart ; he arm'd himself 
and went, 

So coming to the fountain-side beheld 

Balin and Balan sitting statuelike, 

Brethren, to right and left the spring, 
that down, 

From underneath a plume of lady-fern, 

Sang, and the sand danced at the bot- 
tom of it. 

And on the right of Balin Balin's 
horse 

1 An introduction to " Merlin and Vivien." 



Was fast beside an alder, on the left 
Of Balan Balan's near a poplartree. 
" Fair Sirs," said Arthur, " wherefore 

sit ye here ? " 
Balin and Balan answer'd "For the 

sake 
Of glory ; we be mightier men than 

all 
In Arthur's court ; that also have we 

proved ; 
For whatsoever knight against us 

came 
Or I or he have easily overthrown." 
" I too," said Arthur, " am of Arthur's 

hall, 
But rather proven in his Paynim 

wars 
Than famous jousts ; but see, or 

proven or not, 
Whether me likewise ye can over- 
throw." 
And Arthur lightly smote the breth- 
ren down, 
And lightly so return'd, and no man 

knew. 
Then Balin rose, and Balan, and 

beside 
The carolling water set themselves 

again, 
And spake no word until the shadow 

turn'd ; 
When from the fringe of coppice 

round them burst 
A spangled pursuivant, and crying 

"Sirs, 
Rise, follow ! ye be sent for by the 

King," 
They f ollow'd ; whom when Arthur 

seeing ask'd 
"Tell me your names; why sat ye 

by the well ? " 
Balin the stillness of a minute broke 
Saying "An unmelodious name to 

thee, 
Balin, 'the Savage' — that addition 

thine — 
My brother and my better, this man 

here, 
Balan. I smote upon the naked 

skull 
A thrall of thine in open hall, my 

hand 



620 



BALIN AND BALAN. 



Was gauntleted, half slew him; for 

I heard 
He had spoken evil of me ; thy just 

wrath 
Sent me a three-years' exile from 

thine eyes. 
I have not lived my life delight- 

somely : 
For I that did that violence to thy 

thrall, 
Had often wrought some fury on my- 
self, 
Saving for Balan : those three king- 
less years 
Have past — were wormwood-bitter 

to me. King, 
Methought that if we sat beside the 

well, 
And hurl'd to ground what knight 

soever spurr'd 
Against us, thou would'st take me 

gladlier back, 
And make, as ten-times worthier to 

be thine 
Than twenty Balins, Balan knight. 

I have said. 
Not so — not all. A man of thine 

to-day 
AbashM us both, and brake my boast. 

Thy will ? " 
Said Arthur " Thou hast ever spoken 

truth ; 
Thy too fierce manhood would not 

let thee lie. 
Rise, my true knight. As children 

learn, be thou 
Wiser for falling ! walk with me, 

and move 
To music with thine Order and the 

King. 
Thy chair, a grief to all the brethren, 

stands 
Vacant, but thou retake it, mine 



again 



Thereafter, when Sir Balin enter'd 
hall, 

The Lost one Found was greeted as 
in Heaven 

With joy that blazed itself in wood- 
land wealth 

Of leaf, and gayest garlandage of 
flowers, 



Along the walls and down the board ; 

they sat, 
And cup clash'd cup; they drank 

and some one sang, 
Sweet-voiced, a song of welcome, 

whereupon 
Their common shout in chorus, 

mounting, made 
Those banners of twelve battles over- 
head 
Stir, as they stirr'd of old, when Ar- 
thur's host 
Proclaim'd him Victor, and the day 

was won. 
Then Balan added to their Order 

lived 
A wealthier life than heretofore with 

these 
And Balin, till their embassage re- 

turn'd. 
"Sir King" they brought report 

" we hardly found, 
So bush'd about it is with gloom, the 

hall 
Of him to whom ye sent us, Pellam, 

once 
A Christless foe of thine as ever 

dash'd 
Horse against horse ; but seeing that 

thy realm 
Hath prosper'd in the name of Christ, 

the King 
Took, as in rival heat, to holy things ; 
And finds himself descended from the 

Saint 
Arimathaean Joseph ; him who first 
Brought the great faith to Britain 

over seas ; 
He boasts his life as purer than thine 

own ; 
Eats scarce enow to keep his pulse 

abeat ; 
Hath push'd aside his faithful wife, 

nor lets 
Or dame or damsel enter at his 

gates 
Lest he should be polluted. This 

gray King 
Show'd us a shrine wherein were won- 
ders — yea — 
Rich arks with priceless bones of 

martyrdom, 



BAL1N AND BALAN. 



621 



Thorns of the crown and shivers of 

the cross, 
And therewithal (for thus he told us) 

brought 
By holy Joseph hither, that same spear 
Wherewith the Roman pierced the 

side of Christ. 
He much amazed us ; after, when we 

sought 
The tribute, answer'd ' I have quite 

foregone 
All matters of this world : Garlon, 

mine heir 
Of him demand it,' which this Gar- 
lon gave 
With much ado, railing at thine and 

thee. 
But when we left, in those deep 

woods we found 
A knight of thine spear-stricken from 

behind, 
Dead, whom we buried ; more than 

one of us 
Cried out on Garlon, but a woodman 

there 
Reported of some demon in the woods 
Was once a man, who driven by evil 

tongues 
From all his fellows, lived alone, and 

came 
To learn black magic, and to hate his 

kind 
With such a hate, that when he died, 

his soul 
Became a Fiend, which, as the man 

in life 
Was wounded by blind tongues he saw 

not whence, 
Strikes from behind. This woodman 

show'd the cave 
From which he sallies, and wherein 

he dwelt. 
We saw the hoof -print of a horse, no 

more." 
Then Arthur, " Let who goes before 

me, see 
He do not fall behind me : foully 

slain 
And villainously! who will hunt for 

me 
This demon of the woods ? " Said 

Balan, "I"l 



So claim'd the quest and rode away, 

but first, 
Embracing Balin, " Good, my brother, 

hear ! 
Let not thy moods prevail, when I am 

gone 
Who used to lay them ! hold them 

outer fiends, 
Who leap at thee to tear thee ; shake 

them aside, 
Dreams ruling when wit sleeps ! yea, 

but to dream 
That any of these would wrong thee, 

wrongs thyself. 
Witness their flowery welcome. Bound 

are they 
To speak no evil. Truly save for 

fears, 
My fears for thee, so rich a fellow- 
ship 
Would make me wholly blest : thou 

one of them, 
Be one indeed : consider them, and all 
Their bearing in their common bond 

of love, 
No more of hatred than in Heaven 

itself, 
No more of jealousy than in Para- 
dise." 
So Balan warn'd, and went; Balin 

remain'd : 
Who — for but three brief moons had 

glanced away 
From being knighted till he smote the 

thrall, 
And faded from the presence into 

years 
Of exile — now would strictlier set 

himself 
To learn what Arthur meant by cour- 
tesy, 
Manhood, and knighthood ; wherefore 

hover'd round 
Lancelot, but when he mark'd his 

high sweet smile 
In passing, and a transitory word 
Made knight or churl or child or dam- 
sel seem 
From being smiled at happier in 

themselves — 
Sigh'd, as a boy lame-born beneath a 

height, 



622 



BALIN AND BALAN. 



That glooms his valley, sighs to see 

the peak 
Sun-flush'd, or touch at night the 

northern star; 
For one from out his village lately 

climb'd 
And brought report of azure lands 

and fair, 
Far seen to left and right; and he 

himself 
Hath hardly scaled with help a hun- 
dred feet 
Up from the base : so Balin marvel- 
ling oft 
How far beyond him Lancelot seem'd 

to move, 
Groan'd, and at times would mutter, 

" These be gifts, 
Born with the blood, not learnable, 

divine, 
Beyond my reach. Well had I 

f oughten — well — 
In those fierce wars, struck hard — 

and had I crown'd 
With my slain self the heaps of whom 

I slew — 
So — better ! — But this worship of 

the Queen, 
That honor too wherein she holds him 

— this, 

This was the sunshine that hath given 

the man 
A growth, a name that branches o'er 

the rest, 
And strength against all odds, and 

what the King 
So prizes — overprizes — gentleness. 
Her likewise would I worship an I 

might. 
I never can be close with her, as he 
That brought her hither. Shall I 

pray the King 
To let me bear some token of his 

Queen 
Whereon to gaze, remembering her 

— forget 

My heats and violences 1 live afresh ? 
What, if the Queen disdain' d to grant 

it! nay 
Being so stately-gentle, would she make 
My darkness blackness 1 and with 

how sweet grace 



She greeted my return ! Bold will I 
be — 

Some goodly cognizance of Guinevere, 

In lieu of this rough beast upon my 
shield, 

Langued gules, and tooth'd with grin- 
ning savagery." 
And Arthur, when Sir Balin sought 
him, said 

" What wilt thou bear ? " Balin was 
bold, and ask'd 

To bear her own crown-royal upon 
shield, 

Whereat she smiled and turn'd her to 
the King, 

Who answer'd " Thou shalt put the 
crown to use. 

The crown is but the shadow of the 
King, 

And this a shadow's shadow, let him 
have it, 

So this will help him of his vio- 
lences ! " 

" No shadow " said Sir Balin " my 
Queen, 

But light to me ! no shadow, my King 

But golden earnest of a gentler life ! " 
So Balin bare the crown, and all 
the knights 

Approved him, and the Queen, and 
all the world 

Made music, and he felt his being 
move 

In music with his Order, and the 
King. 
The nightingale, full-toned in mid- 
dle May, 

Hath ever and anon a note so thin 

It seems another voice in other 
groves; 

Thus, after some quick burst of sud- 
den wrath, 

The music in him seem'd to change, 
and grow 

Faint and far-off. 

And once he saw the thrall 

His passion half had gauntleted to 
death, 

That causer of his banishment and 
shame, 

Smile at him, as he deem'd, presump- 
tuously ; 



BALIN AND BALAN. 



623 



His arm half rose to strike again, but 

fell: 
The memory of that cognizance on 

shield 
Weighted it down, but in himself he 

moan'd : 
" Too high this mount of Camelot 

for me : 
These high-set courtesies are not for 

me. 
Shall I not rather proye the worse 

for these ? 
Fierier and stormier from restraining, 

break 
Into some madness ev'n before the 

Queen ? " 
Thus, as a hearth lit in a mountain 

home, 
And glancing on the window, when 

the gloom 
Of twilight deepens round it, seems a 

flame 
That rages in the woodland far below, 
So when his moods were darken'd, 

court and King 
And all the kindly warmth of Ar- 
thur's hall • 
Shadow'd an angry distance : yet he 

strove 
To learn the graces of .their Table, 

fought 
Hard with himself, and seem'd at 

length in peace. 
Then chanced, one morning, that 

Sir Balin sat 
Close-bower'd in that garden nigh the 

hall. 
A walk of roses ran from door to 

door; 
A walk of lilies crost it to the bower : 
And down that range of roses the 

great Queen 
Came with slow steps, the morning 

on her face ; 
And all in shadow from the counter 

door 
Sir Lancelot as to meet her, then at 

once, 
As if he saw not, glanced aside, and 

paced 
The long white walk of lilies toward 

the bower. 



Follow'd the Queen ; Sir Balin heard 

her " Prince, 
Art thou so little loyal to thy Queen, 
As pass without good morrow to thy 

Queen % " 
To whom Sir Lancelot with his eyes 

on earth, 
"Fain would I still be loyal to the 

Queen." 
" Yea so " she said " but so to pass 

me by — 
So loyal scarce is loyal to thyself, 
Whom all men rate the king of cour- 
tesy. 
Let be : ye stand, fair lord, as in a 

dream." 
Then Lancelot with his hand among 

the flowers 
" Yea — for a dream. Last night me- 

thought I saw 
That maiden Saint who stands with 

lily in hand 
In yonder shrine. All round her 

prest the dark, 
And all the light upon her silver 

face 
Flow'd from the spiritual lily that 

she held. 
Lo ! these her emblems drew mine 

eyes — away : 
For see, how perfect-pure ! As light 

a flush 
As hardly tints the blossom of the 

quince 
Would mar their charm of stainless 

maidenhood." 
" Sweeter to me " she said " this 

garden rose 
Deep-hued and many -folded ! sweeter 

still 
The wild-wood hyacinth and the 

bloom of May. 
Prince, we have ridd'n before among 

the flowers 
In those fair days — not all as cool as 

these, 
Tho' season-earlier. Art thou sad ? 

or sick 1 
Our noble King will send thee his 

own leech — 
Sick ? or for any matter anger'd at 

me? " 



624 



BALIN AND BALAN. 



Then Lancelot lifted his large eyes ; 

they dwelt 
Deep-tranced on hers, and could not 

fall : her hue 
Changed at his gaze : so turning side 

by side 
They past, and Balin started from 

his bower. 
" Queen ? subject ? but I see not 

what I see. 
Damsel and lover ? hear not what I 

hear. 
My father hath begotten me in his 

wrath. 
I suffer from the things before me, 

know, 
Learn nothing ; am not worthy to be 

knight ; 
A churl, a clown ! " and in him gloom 

on gloom 
Deepen'd : he sharply caught his 

lance and shield, 
Nor stay'd to crave permission of the 

king, 
But, mad for strange adventure, 

dash'd away. 
He took the selfsame track as Ba- 

lan, saw 
The fountain where they sat together, 

sigh'd 
" Was I not better there with him ? " 

and rode 
The skyless woods, but under open 

blue 
Came on the hoarhead woodman at a 

bough 
Wearily hewing, " Churl, thine axe !" 

he cried, 
Descended, and disjointed it at a 

blow : 
To whom the woodman utter'd won- 

deringly 
" Lord, thou couldst lay the Devil of 

these woods 
If arm of flesh could lay him." Ba- 
lin cried 
" Him, or the viler devil who plays 

his part, 
To lay that devil would lay the Devil 

in me." 
" Nay " said the churl, " our devil is a 

truth, 



I saw the flash of him but yestereven. 
And some do say that our Sir Garlon 

too 
Hath learn'd black magic, and to ride 

unseen. 
Look to the cave." But Balin 

answer'd him 
"Old fabler, these be fancies of the 

churl, 
Look to thy woodcraft," and so leav- 
ing him, 
Now with slack rein and careless of 

himself, 
Now with dug spur and raving at 

himself, 
Now with droopt brow down the long 

glades he rode ; 
So mark'd not on his right a cavern- 
chasm 
Yawn over darkness, where, not far 

within 
The whole day died, but, dying, 

gleam'd on rocks 
Roof -pendent, sharp ; and others from 

the floor, 
Tusklike, arising, made that mouth 

of night 
Whereout the Demon issued up from 

Hell. 
He mark'd not this, but blind and 

deaf to all 
Save that chain'd rage, which ever 

yelpt within, 
Past eastward from the falling sun. 

At once 
He felt the hollow-beaten mosses 

thud 
And tremble, and then the shadow of 

a spear, 
Shot from behind him, ran along the 

ground. 
Sideways he started from the path, 

and saw, 
With pointed lance as if to pierce, a 

shape, 
A light of armor by him flash, and pass 
And vanish in the woods ; and fol- 

low'd this, 
But all so blind in rage that una- 
wares 
He burst his lance against a forest 

bough, 



BALIN AND BALAN. 



625 



Dishorsed himself, and rose again, 

and fled 
Far, till the castle of a King, the hall 
Of Pellam, lichen-bearded, grayly 

draped 
With streaming grass, appear'd, low- 
built but strong ; 
The ruinous donjon as a knoll of 

moss, 
The battlement overtopt with ivytods, 
A home of bats, in every tower an 

owl. 
Then spake the men of Pellam cry- 
ing f Lord, 
Why wear ye this crown-royal upon 

shield ? " 
Said Balin " For the fairest and the 

best 
Of ladies living gave me this to 

bear." 
So stall'd his horse, and strode across 

the court, 
But found the greetings both of 

knight and King 
Faint in the low dark hall of banquet : 

leaves 
Laid their green faces flat against the 

panes, 
Sprays grated, and the canker'd 

boughs without 
Whined in the wood; for all was 

hush'd within, 
Till when at feast Sir Garlon likewise 

ask'd 
"Why wear ye that crown-royal?" 

Balin said 
" The Queen we worship, Lancelot, 

I, and all, 
As fairest, best and purest, granted 

me 
To bear it ! " Such a sound (for 

Arthur's knights 
Were hated strangers in the hall) as 

makes 
The white swan-mother, sitting, when 

she hears 
A strange knee rustle thro' her secret 

reeds, 
Made Garlon, hissing; then he sourly 

smiled. 
"Fairest I grant her: I have seen; 

but best, 



Best, purest ? thou from Arthur's hall, 

and yet 
So simple ! hast thou eyes, or if, are 

these 
So far besotted that they fail to see 
This fair wife-worship cloaks a secret 

shame ? 
Truly, ye men of Arthur be but 

babes." 
A goblet on the board by Balin, 

boss'd 
With holy Joseph's legend, on his 

right 
Stood, all of massiest bronze: one 

side had sea 
And ship and sail and angels blowing 

on it : 
And one was rough with pole and 

scaffoldage 
Of that low church he built at Glas- 
tonbury. 
This Balin graspt, but while in act to 

hurl, 
Thro' memory of that token on the 

shield 
Relax'd his hold : " I will be gentle " 

he thought 
"And passing gentle" caught his 

hand away, 
Then fiercely to Sir Garlon " eyes 

have I 
That saw to-day the shadow of a spear, 
Shot from behind me, run along the 

ground; 
Eyes too that long have watch'd how 

Lancelot draws 
From homage to the best and purest, 

might, 
Name, manhood, and a grace, but 

scantly thine, 
Who, sitting in thine own hall, canst 

endure 
To mouth so huge a foulness — to 

thy guest, 
Me, me of Arthur's Table. Felon 

talk! 
Let be ! no more ! " 

But not the less by night 
The scorn of Garlon, poisoning all 

his rest, 
Stung him in dreams. At length, and 

dim thro' leaves 



626 



BALIN AND BALAN. 



Blinkt the white morn, sprays grated, 
and old boughs 

Whined in the wood. He rose, de- 
scended, met 

The scorner in the castle court, and 
fain, 

For hate and loathing, would have 
past him by; 

But when Sir Garlon utter'd mocking- 
wise ; 

" What, wear ye still that same crown- 
scandalous 1 " 

His countenance blacken'd, and his 
forehead veins 

Bloated, and branch'd; and tearing 
out of sheath 

The brand, Sir Balin with a fiery 
"Ha! 

So thou be shadow, here I make thee 
ghost," 

Hard upon helm smote him, and the 
blade flew 

Splintering in six, and clinkt upon 
the stones. 

Then Garlon, reeling slowly back- 
ward, fell, 

And Balin by the banneret of his helm 

Dragg'd him, and struck, but from 
the castle a cry 

Sounded across the court, and — men- 
at-arms, 

A score with pointed lances, making 
at him — 

He dash'd the pummel at the fore- 
most face, 

Beneath a low door dipt, and made 
his feet 

Wings thro' a glimmering gallery 
till he mark'd 

The portal of King Pellam's chapel 
wide 

And inward to the wall; he stept 
behind ; 

Thence in a moment heard them pass 
like wolves 

Howling ; but while he stared about 
the shrine, 

In which he scarce could spy the 
Christ for Saints, 

Beheld before a golden altar lie 

The longest lance his eyes had ever 
seen, 



Point-painted red ; and seizing there- 
upon 
Push'd thro' an open casement down, 

lean'd on it, 
Leapt in a semicircle, and lit on earth ; 
Then hand at ear, and harkening from 

what side 
The blindfold rummage buried in the 

walls 
Might echo, ran the counter path, and 

found 
His charger, mounted on him and 

away. 
An arrow whizz'd to the right, one to 

the left, 
One overhead; and Pellam's feeble 

cry 
" Stay, stay him ! he defileth heavenly 

things 
With earthly uses " — made him 

quickly dive 
Beneath the boughs, and race thro' 

many a mile 
Of dense and open, till his goodly 

horse, 
Arising wearily at a fallen oak, 
Stumbled headlong, and cast him face 

to ground. 
Half-wroth he had not ended, but 

all glad, 
Knightlike, to find his charger yet 

unlamed, 
Sir Balin drew the shield from off his 

neck, 
Stared at the priceless cognizance, and 

thought 
"I have shamed thee so that now 

thou shamest me, 
Thee will I bear no more," high on a 

branch 
Hung it, and turn'd aside into the 

woods, 
And there in gloom cast himself all 

along, 
Moaning "My violences, my vio- 
lences ! " 
But now the wholesome music of 

the wood 
Was dumb'd by one from out the hall 

of Mark, 
A damsel-errant, warbling, as she 

rode 



BALIN AND BALAN. 



627 



The woodland alleys, Vivien, with 

her Squire. 
" The fire of Heaven has kill'd the 

barren cold, 
And kindled all the plain and all the 

wold. 
The new leaf ever pushes off the old. 
The fire of Heaven is not the flame 

of Hell. 
Old priest, who mumble worship in 

your quire — 
Old monk and nun, ye scorn the 

world's desire, 
Yet in your frosty cells ye feel the 

fire! 
The fire of Heaven is not the flame 

of Hell. 
The fire of Heaven is on the dusty 

ways. 
The wayside blossoms open to the 

blaze. 
The whole wood-world is one full 

peal of praise. 
The fire of Heaven is not the flame 

of Hell. 
The fire of Heaven is lord of all 

things good, 
And starve not thou this fire within 

thy blood, 
But follow Vivien thro' the fiery 

flood! 
The fire of Heaven is not the flame of 

Hell ! " 
Then turning to her Squire " This 

fire of Heaven, 
This old sun-worship, boy, will rise 

again, 
And beat the cross to earth, and break 

the King 
And all his Table." 

Then they reach'd a glade, 
Where under one long lane of cloud- 
less air 
Before another wood, the royal crown 
Sparkled, and swaying upon a restless 

elm 
Drew the vague glance of Vivien, and 

her Squire ; 
Amazed were these ; " Lo there " she 

cried — " a crown — 
Borne by some high lord-prince of 

Arthur's hall, 



And there a horse ! the rider 1 where 

is he? 
See, yonder lies one dead within the 

wood. 
Not dead ; he stirs ! — but sleeping. 

I will speak. 
Hail, royal knight, we break on thy 

sweet rest, 
Not, doubtless, all unearn'd by noble 

deeds. 
But bounden art thou, if from 

Arthur's hall, 
To help the weak. Behold, I fly from 

shame, 
A lustful King, who sought to win my 

love 
Thro' evil ways : the knight, with 

whom I rode, 
Hath suffer'd misadventure, and my 

squire 
Hath in him small defence ; but thou, 

Sir Prince, 
Wilt surely guide me to the warrior 

King, 
Arthur the blameless, pure as any 

maid, 
To get me shelter for my maiden- 
hood. 
I charge thee by that crown upon thy 

shield, 
And by the great Queen's name, arise 

and hence." 
And Balin rose, " Thither no more ! 

nor Prince 
Nor knight am I, but one that hath 

defamed 
The cognizance she gave me : here I 

dwell 
Savage among the savage woods, 

here die — 
Die : let the wolves' black maws en- 
sepulchre 
Their brother beast, whose anger was 

his lord. 
me, that such a name as Guine- 
vere's, 
Which our high Lancelot hath so 

lifted up, 
And been thereby uplifted, should 

thro' me, 
My violence, and my villainy, come 

to shame." 



628 



BALIN AND BALAN. 



Thereat she suddenly laugh'd and 

shrill, anon 
Sigh'd all as suddenly. Said Balin 

to her 
" Is this thy courtesy — to mock me, 

ha? 
Hence, for I will not with thee." 

Again she sigh'd 
" Pardon, sweet lord ! we maidens 

often laugh 
When sick at heart, when rather we 

should weep. 
I knew thee wrong'd. I brake upon 

thy rest, 
And now full loth am I to break thy 

dream, 
But thou art man, and canst abide a 

truth, 
Tho' bitter. Hither, boy — and mark 

me well. 
Dost thou remember at Caerleon 

once — 
A year ago — nay, then I love thee 

not — 
Ay, thou rememberest well — one 

summer dawn — 
By the great tower — Caerleon upon 

Usk — 
Nay, truly we were hidden : this fair 

lord, 
The flower of all their vestal knight- 
hood, knelt 
In amorous homage — knelt — what 

else % — ay 
Knelt, and drew down from out his 

night-black hair . 
And mumbled that white hand whose 

ring'd caress * 
Had wander'd from her own King's 

golden head, 
And lost itself in darkness, till she 

cried — 
I thought the great tower would crash 

down on both — 
' Rise, my sweet king, and kiss me on 

the lips, 
Thou art my King/ This lad, whose 

lightest word 
Is mere white truth in simple naked- 
ness, 
Saw them embrace : he reddens, can- 
not speak, 



So bashful, he! but all the maiden 

Saints, 
The deathless mother-maidenhood of 

Heaven 
Cry out upon her. Up then, ride with 

me ! 
Talk not of shame ! thou canst not, 

an thou would'st, 
Do these more shame than these have 

done themselves." 
She lied with ease; but horror 

stricken he, 
Remembering that dark bower at 

Camelot, 
Breathed in a dismal whisper " It is 

truth." 
Sunnily she smiled " And even in 

this lone wood 
Sweet lord, ye do right well to whis- 
per this. 
Fools prate, and perish traitors. 

Woods have tongues, 
As walls have ears : but thou shalt 

go with me, 
And we will speak at first exceeding 

low. 
Meet is it the good King be not de- 
ceived. 
See now, I set thee high on vantage 

ground, 
From whence to watch the time, and 

eagle-like 
Stoop at thy will on Lancelot and the 

Queen." 
She ceased; his evil spirit upon 

him leapt, 
He ground his teeth together, sprang 

with a yell, 
Tore from the branch, and cast on 

earth, the shield, 
Drove his mail'd heel athwart the 

royal crown, 
Stampt all into defacement, hurl'd 

it from him 
Among the forest weeds, and cursed 

the tale, 
The told-of, and the teller. 

That weird yell, 
Unearthlier than all shriek of bird or 

beast, 
Thrill'd thro' the woods; and Balan 

lurking there 



BALIN AND BALAJV. 



629 



(His quest was unaccomplish'd) heard 

and thought 
" The scream of that Wood-devil I 

came to quell ! " 
Then nearing " Lo ! he hath slain some 

brother-knight, 
And tramples on the goodly shield to 

show 
His loathing of our Order and the 

Queen. 
My quest, meseems, is here. Or devil 

or man 
Guard thou thine head." Sir Balin 

spake not word, 
But snatch'd a sudden buckler from 

the Squire, 
And vaulted on his horse, and so they 

crash'd 
In onset, and King Pellam's holy 

spear, 
Reputed to be red with sinless 

blood, 
Redden'd at once with sinful, for the 

point 
Across the maiden shield of Balan 

prick'd 
The hauberk to the flesh ; and Balin's 

horse 
Was wearied to the death, and, when 

they clash'd, 
Rolling back upon Balin, crush'd the 

man 
Inward, and either fell, and swoon'd 

away. 
Then to her Squire mutter'd the 

damsel " Fools ! 
This fellow hath wrought some foul- 
ness with his Queen : 
Else never had he borne her crown, 

nor raved 
And thus foam'd over at a rival 

name : 
But thou, Sir Chick, that scarce hast 

broken shell, 
Art yet half -yolk, not even come to 

down — 
Who never sawest Caerleon upon 

Usk — 
And yet hast often pleaded for my 

love — 
See what I see, be thou where I have 

been, 



Or else Sir Chick — dismount and 

loose their casques 
I fain would know what manner of 

men they be." 
And when the Squire had loosed them, 

"Goodly! — look! 
They might have cropt the myriad 

flower of May, 
And butt each other here, like brain- 
less bulls, 
Dead for one heifer ! " 

Then the gentle Squire 
" I hold them happy, so they died for 

love : 
And, Vivien, tho' ye beat me like 

your dog, 
I too could die, as now I live, for 

thee." 
" Live on, Sir Boy," she cried. " I 

better prize 
The living dog than the dead lion : 

away ! 
I cannot brook to gaze upon the 

dead." 
Then leapt her palfrey 5'er the fallen 

oak, 
And bounding forward " Leave them 

to the wolves." 
But when their foreheads felt the 

cooling air, 
Balin first woke, and seeing that true 

face, 
Familiar up from cradle-time, so 

wan, 
CrawPd slowly with low moans to 

where he lay, 
And on his dying brother cast him- 
self 
Dying ; and he lifted faint eyes ; he 

felt 
One near him ; all at once they found 

the world, 
Staring wild-wide ; then with a child- 
like wail, 
And drawing down the dim disastrous 

brow 
That o'er him hung, he kiss'd it, 

moan'd and spake ; 
" Balin, Balin, I that faia had 

died 
To save thy life, have brought thee 

to thy death. 



630 



PROLOGUE TO GENERAL HAM LEY. 



Why had ye not the shield I knew % 

and why 
Trampled ye thus on that which bare 

the Crown ? " 
Then Balin told him brokenly, and 

in gasps, 
All that had chanced, and Balan 

moan'd again. 
" Brother, I dwelt a day in Pellam's 

hall: 
This Garlon mock'd me, but I heeded 

not. 
And one said 'Eat in peace! a liar 

is he, 
And hates thee for the tribute ! ' this 

good knight 
Told me, that twice a wanton damsel 

came, 
And sought for Garlon at the castle- 
gates, 
Whom Pellam drove away with holy 

heat. 
I well believe this damsel, and the 

one 
Who stood beside thee even now, the 

same. 
' She dwells among the woods ' he 

said ' and meets 
And dallies with him in the Mouth of 

Hell.' 
Foul are their lives ; foul are their 

lips ; they lied. 
Pure as our own true Mother is our 

Queen." 
" brother " answer'd Balin " Woe 

is me ! 
My madness all thy life has been thy 

doom, 
Thy curse, and darken'd all thy day ; 

and now 
The night has come. I scarce can 

see thee now. 
Goodnight ! for we shall never bid 

again 
Goodmorrow — Dark my doom was 

here, and dark 
It will be there. I see thee now no 

more. 
I would not mine again should darken 

thine, 
Goodnight, true brother." 



Balan answer'd low 

" Goodnight, true brother here ! good- 
morrow there ! 

We two were born together, and we 
die 

Together by one doom : " and while 
he spoke 

Closed his death-drowsing eyes, and 
slept the sleep 

With Balin, either lock'd in either's 



PROLOGUE TO GENERAL 
HAMLEY. 

Our birches yellowing and from each 

The light leaf falling fast, 
While squirrels from our fiery beech 

Were bearing off the mast, 
You came, and look'd and loved the 
view 

Long-known and loved by me, 
Green Sussex fading into blue 

With one gray glimpse of sea ; 
And, gazing from this height alone, 

We spoke of what had been 
Most marvellous in the wars your 
own 

Crimean eyes had seen ; 
And now — like old-world inns that 
take 

Some warrior for a sign 
That therewithin a guest may make 

True cheer with honest wine — 
Because you heard the lines I read 

Nor utter'd word of blame, 
I dare without your leave to head 

These rhymings with your name, 
Who know you but as one of those 

I fain would meet again, 
Yet know you, as your England knows 

That you and all your men 
Were soldiers to her heart's desire, 

When, in the vanish'd year, 
You saw the league-long rampart-fire 

Flare from Tel-el-Kebir 
Thro' darkness, and the foe was driven, 

And Wolseley overthrew 
Arabi, and the stars in heaven 

Paled, and the glory grew. 



THE CHARGE OF THE HEAVY BRIGADE. 



631 



THE CHARGE OF THE HEAVY 
BRIGADE AT BALACLAVA. 

October 25, 1854. 



The charge of the gallant three hun- 
dred, the Heavy Brigade ! 

Down the hill, down the hill, thousands 
of Russians, 

Thousands of horsemen, drew to the 
valley — and stay'd ; 

For Scarlett and Scarlett's three hun- 
dred were riding by 

When the points of the Russian lances 
arose in the sky ; 

And he call'd " Left wheel into line ! " 
and the}' wheePd and obey'd. 

Then he look'd at the host that had 
halted he knew not why, 

And he turn'd half round, and he bad 
his trumpeter sound 

To the charge, and he rode on ahead, 
as he waved his blade 

To the gallant three hundred whose 
glory will never die — 

" Follow," and up the hill, up the hill, 
up the hill, 

Follow'd the Heavy Brigade. 



ii. 



The trumpet, the gallop, the charge, 

and the might of the fight ! 
Thousands of horsemen had gather'd 

there on the height, 
With a wing pushed out to the left, 

and a wing to the right, 
And who shall escape if they close 1 

but he dash'd up alone 
Thro' the great gray slope of men, 
Sway'd his sabre, and held his own 
Like an Englishman there and then ; 
All in a moment follow'd with force 
Three that were next in their fiery 

course, 
Wedged themselves in between horse 

and horse, 
Fought for their lives in the narrow 

gap they had made — 



Four amid thousands ! and up the hill, 

up the hill, 
Gallopt the gallant three hundred, the 

Heavy Brigade. 



Fell like a cannonshot, 
Burst like a thunderbolt, 
Crash'd like a hurricane, 
Broke thro' the mass from below, 
Drove thro' the midst of the foe, 
Plunged up and down, to and fro, 
Rode flashing blow upon blow, 
Brave Inniskillens and Greys 
Whirling their sabres in circles of 

light ! 
And some of us, all in amaze, 
Who were held for a while from the 

fight, 
And were only standing at gaze, 
When the dark-muffled Russian crowd 
Folded its wings from the left and the 

right, 
And roll'd them around like a cloud, — 
O mad for the charge and the battle 

were we, 
When our own good redcoats sank 

from sight, 
Like drops of blood in a dark-gray sea, 
And we turn'd to each other, whisper- 
ing, all dismay'd, 
" Lost are the gallant three hundred 

of Scarlett's Brigade ! " 



" Lost one and all " were the words 
Mutter'd in our dismay ; 
But they rode like Victors and Lords 
Thro' the forest of lances and swords 
In the heart of the Russian hordes, 
They rode, or they stood at bay — 
Struck with the sword-hand and slew, 
Down with the bridle-hand drew 
The foe from the saddle and threw 
Underfoot there in the fray — 
Ranged like a storm or stood like a 

rock 
In the wave of a stormy day; 
Till suddenly shock upon shock 
Stagger'd the mass from without, 
Drove it in wild disarray, 



632 



EPILOGUE. 



For our men gallopt up with a cheer 

and a shout, 
And the foeman surged, and waver'd, 

and reel'd 
Up the hill, up the hill, up the hill, 

out of the field, 
And over the brow and away. 



V. 



Glory to each and to all, and the charge 

that they made ! 
Glory to all the three hundred, and all 

the Brigade ! 



Note. — The " three hundred " of the " Heavy Brigade " who made this famous charge were 
the Scots Greys and the 2nd squadron of Inniskillings; the remainder of the " Heavy Brigade " 
subsequently dashing up to their support. 

The " three " were Scarlett's aide-de-camp, Elliot, and the trumpeter and Shegog the 
orderly, who had been close behind him. 



EPILOGUE. 
Irene. 

Not this way will you set your name 
A star among the stars. 



What way 



Poet. 

Irene. 

when you 



should 



You praise 
blame 
The barbarism of wars. 
A juster epoch has begun. 

Poet. 

Yet tho' this cheek be gray, 
And that bright hair the modern sun, 

Those eyes the blue to-day, 
You wrong me, passionate little friend. 

I would that wars should cease, 
I would the globe from end to end 

Might sow and reap in peace, 
And some new Spirit o'erbear the ohi, 

Or Trade re-frain the Powers 
From war with kindly links of gold, 

Or Love with wreaths of flowers. 
Slav, Teuton, Kelt, I count them all 

My friends and brother souls, 
With all the peoples, great and small, 

That wheel between the poles. 
But since, our mortal shadow, 111 

To waste this earth began — 
Perchance from some abuse of Will 

In worlds before the man 



Involving ours — he needs must fight 

To make true peace his own, 
He needs must combat might with 
might, 

Or Might would rule alone ; 
And who loves War for War's own 
sake 

Is fool, or crazed, or worse ; 
But let the patriot-soldier take 

His meed of fame in verse ; 
Nay — tho' that realm were in the 
wrong 

For which her warriors bleed, 
It still were right to crown with song 

The warrior's noble deed — 
A crown the Singer hopes may last, 

For so the deed endures ; 
But Song will vanish in the Vast ; 

And that large phrase of yours 
" A Star among the stars," my dear, 

Is girlish talk at best; 
For dare we dally with the sphere 

As he did half in jest, 
Old Horace ? " I will strike " said he 

" The stars with head sublime," 
But scarce could see, as now we see, 

The man in Space and Time, 
So drew perchance a happier lot 

Than ours, who rhyme to-day. 
The fires that arch this dusky dot — 

Yon myriad-worlded way — 
The vast sun-clusters' gathsr'd blaze, 

World-isles in lonely skies, 
Whole heavens within themselves, 
amaze 

Our brief humanities ; 



TO VIRGIL. 



633 



And so does Earth ; for Homer's 
fame, 

Tho' carved in harder stone — 
The falling drop will make his name 

As mortal as my own. 



No! 



Irene. 



Poet. 



Let it live then — ay, till when? 

Earth passes, all is lost 
In what they prophesy, our wise men, 

Sun-flame or sunless frost, 
And deed and song alike are swept 

Away, and all in vain 
As far as man can see, except 

The man himself remain ; 
And tho', in this lean age forlorn, 

Too many a voice may cry 
That man can have no after-morn, 

Not yet of these am I. 
The man remains, and whatsoe'er 

He wrought of good or brave 
Will mould him thro' the cycle-year 

That dawns behind the grave. 



And here the Singer for his Art 
Not all in vain may plead 

" The song that nerves a nation's 
heart, 
Is in itself a deed." 



TO VIRGIL. 

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OP THE 
MANTUANS FOR THE NINETEENTH 
CENTENARY OF VIRGIL'S DEATH. 



Roman Virgil, thou that singest 
Ilion's lofty temples robed in fire, 

Ilion falling, Rome arising, 

wars, and filial faith, and Dido's 
pyre; 



Landscape-lover, lord of language 
more than lie that sang the Works 
and Days, 



All the chosen coin of fancy 

flashing out from many a golden 
.phrase ; 



Thou that singest wheat and wood- 
land, 
tilth and vineyard, hive and horse 
and herd ; 
All the charm of all the Muses 

often flowering in a lonely word ; 



Poet of the happy Tityrus 

piping underneath his beechen 
bowers ; 
Poet of the poet-satyr 

whom the laughing shepherd 
bound with flowers; 



Chanter of the Pollio, glorying 

in the blissful years again to be, 

Summers of the snakeless meadow, 
unlaborious earth and oarless sea ; 



Thou that seest Universal 

Nature moved by Universal 
Mind ; 
Thou majestic in thy sadness 

at the doubtful doom of human 
kind ; 

VII. 

Light among the vanish'd ages ; 

star that gildest yet this phantom 
shore ; 
Golden branch amid the shadows, 
kings and realms that pass to 
rise no more; 



Now thy Forum roars no longer, 

fallen every purple Caesar's 
dome — 
Tho' thine ocean-roll of rhythm 

sound forever of Imperial 
Rome — 



634 



THE DEAD PROPHET. 



IX. 

Now the Rome of slaves hath perish'd, 
and the Rome of freemen holds 
her place, 
I, from out the Northern Island 

sunder'd once from all the hu- 
man race, 



I salute thee, Mantovano, 

I that loved thee since my day- 
began, 
Wielder of the stateliest measure 

ever moulded by the lips of man. 



THE DEAD PROPHET. 
182-. 

i. 

Dead! 

And the Muses cried with a stormy 
cry 
" Send them no more, forevermore. 

Let the people die." 

ii. 
Dead! 

" Is it he then brought so low ? " 
And a careless people flock'd from 
the fields 
With a purse to pay for the show. 



Dead, who had served his time, 

Was one of the people's kings, 
Had labor'd in lifting them out of 
slime, 
And showing them, souls have 
wings ! 

IV. 

Dumb on the winter heath he lay. 

His friends had stript him bare, 
And roll'd his nakedness everyway 

That all the crowd might stare. 

v. 

A storm-worn signpost not to be read, 
And a tree with a moulder'd nest 



On its barkless bones, stood stark by 
the dead ; 
And behind him, low in the West, 



With shifting ladders of shadow and 
light, 

And blurr'd in color and form, 
The sun hung over the gates of Night, 

And glared at a coming storm. 



Then glided a vulturous Beldam forth, 

That on dumb death had thriven ; 
They call'd her "Reverence" here 
upon earth, 
And " The Curse of the Prophet " 
in Heaven. 



She knelt — " We worship him " — 
all but wept — 
" So great so noble was he ! " 
She clear'd her sight, she arose, she 
swept 
The dust of earth from her knee. 



" Great ! for he spoke and the people 
heard, 
And his eloquence caught like a 
flame 
From zone to zone of the world, till 
his Word 
Had won him a noble name. 



" Noble ! he sung, and the sweet sound 
ran 
Thro' palace and cottage door, 
For he touch'd on the whole sad 
planet of man, 
The kings and the rich and the 
poor; 

XI. 

"And he sung not alone of an old sun 
set, 

But a sun coming up in his youth ! 
Great and noble — O yes — but yet — 

For man is a lover of Truth, 



EARLY SPRING. 



635 



" And bound to follow, wherever she go 
Stark-naked, and up or down, 

Thro' her high hill-passes of stainless 
snow, 
Or the foulest sewer of the town — 



" Noble and great — ay — but then, 
Tho' a prophet should have his due, 

Was he noblier-fashion'd than other 
men ? 
Shall we see to it, I and you ? 



" For since he would sit on a Prophet's 
seat, 
As a lord of the Human soul, 
We needs must scan him from head 
to feet 
Were it but for a wart or a mole 1 " 

xv. 

His wife and his child stood by him 
in tears, 
But she — she push'd them aside. 
" Tho' a name may last for a thou- 
sand years, 
Yet a truth is a truth," she cried. 

XVI. 

And she that had haunted his path- 
way still, 
Had often truckled and cower'd 
When he rose in his wrath, and had 
yielded her will 
To the master, as overpower'd, 



She tumbled his helpless corpse 
about. 
" Small blemish upon the skin ! 
But I think we know what is fair 
without 
Is often as foul within." 

XVIII. 

She crouch'd, she tore him part from 
part, 
And out of his body she drew 



The red " Blood-eagle " 1 of liver and 
heart ; 
She held them up to the view ; 



She gabbled, as she groped in the 
dead, 

And all the people were pleased ; 
" See, what a little heart," she said, 

" And the liver is half-diseased ! " 



She tore the Prophet after death, 
And the people paid her well. 

Lightnings flicker'd along the heath 
One shriek'd " The fires of Hell ! " 



EARLY SPRING. 



Once more the Heavenly Power 

Makes all things new, 
And domes the red-plow'd hills 

With loving blue ; 
The blackbirds have their wills, 

The throstles too. 



II. 

Opens a door in Heaven ; 

From skies of glass 
A Jacob's ladder falls 

On greening grass, 
And o'er the mountain-walls 

Young angels pass. 

in. 

Before them fleets the shower, 

And burst the buds, 
And shine the level lands, 

And flash the floods ; 
The stars are from their hands 

Flung thro' the woods, 

1 Old Viking term for lungs, liver, etc., 
when torn by the conqueror out of the body 
of the conquered. 



636 



PREFATORY POEM. 



The woods with living airs 

How softly fann'd, 
Light airs from where the deep, 

All down the sand, 
Is hreathing in his sleep, 

Heard by the land. 

v. 

O follow, leaping blood, 

The season's lure ! 
O heart, look down and up 

Serene, secure, 
Warm as the crocus cup, 

Like snowdrops, pure ! 



Past, Future glimpse and fade 
Thro' some slight spell, 

A gleam from yonder vale, 
Some far blue fell, 

And sympathies, how frail, 
In sound and smell ! 



Till at thy chuckled note, 
Thou twinkling bird, 

The fairy fancies range, 
And, lightly stirr'd, 

Ring little bells of change 
From word to word. 



For now the Heavenly. Power 
Makes all things new, 

And thaws the cold, and fills 
The flower with dew ; 

The blackbirds have their wills, 
The poets too. 



PREFATORY POEM TO MY 
BROTHER'S SONNETS. 

Midnight, June 30, 1879. 



Midnight — in no midsummer tune 
The breakers lash the shores : 
The cuckoo of a joyless June 
Is calling out of doors : 



And thou hast vanish'd from thine own 
To that which looks like rest, 
True brother, only to be known 
By those who love thee best. 



Midnight — and joyless June gone by, 
And from the deluged park 
The cuckoo of a worse July 
Is calling thro' the dark : 

But thou art silent underground, 
And o'er thee streams the rain, 
True poet, surely to be found 
When Truth is found again. 



And, now to these unsummer'd skies 
The summer bird is still, 
Far off a phantom cuckoo cries 
From out a phantom hill ; 

And thro' this midnight breaks the 

sun 
Of sixty years away, 
The light of days when life begun, 
The days that seem to-day, 

When all my griefs were shared with 

thee, 
As all my hopes were thine — 
As all thou w T ert was one with me, 
May all thou art be mine ! 



"FRATER AVE ATQUE VALE." 

Row us out from Desenzano, to your 

Sirmione row ! 
So they row'd, and there we landed — 

"0 venusta Sirmio!" 
There to me thro' all the groves of 

olive in the summer glow, 
There beneath the Roman ruin where 

the purple flowers grow, 
Came that " Ave atque Vale " of the 

Poet's hopeless woe, 
Tenderest of Roman poets nineteen- 

hundred years ago, 
" Frater Ave atque Vale " — as we 

wander'd to and fro 



HELEN'S TOWER — HANDS ALL ROUND. 



637 



Gazing at the Lydian laughter of the 
Garda Lake below 

Sweet Catullus's all-but-island, olive- 
silvery Sirmio ! 



HELEN'S TOWER. 1 

Helen's Tower, here I stand, 
Dominant over sea and land. 
Son's love built me, and I hold 
Mother's love engrav'n in gold. 
Love is in and out of time, 
I am mortal stone and lime. 
Would my granite girth were strong 
As either love, to last as long ! 
I should wear my crown entire 
To and thro' the Doomsday fire, 
And be found of angel eyes 
In earth's recurring Paradise. 



EPITAPH ON LORD STRAT- 
FORD DE REDCLIFFE. 

IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

Thou third great Canning, stand 
among our best 
And noblest, now thy long day's 
work hath ceased, 
Here silent in our Minster of the 
West 
Who wert the voice of England in 
the East. 



EPITAPH ON GENERAL GOR- 
DON. 

FOR A CENOTAPH. 

Warrior of God, man's friend, not 
laid below, 
But somewhere dead far in the 
waste Soudan, 
Thou lives t in all hearts, for all 
men know 
This earth has borne no simpler, 
nobler man. 

1 Written at the request of my friend, 
Lord Dufferin. 



EPITAPH ON CAXTON. 

in st. Margaret's, Westminster. 

Fiat Lux (his motto).. 

Thy prayer was " Light — more Light 

— while Time shall last .' " 
Thou sawest a glory growing on the 

night, 
But not the shadows which that light 

would cast, 
Till shadows vanish in the Light of 

Light. 



TO THE DUKE OF ARGYLL. 

O Patriot Statesman, be thou wise 
to know 

The limits of resistance, and the 
bounds 

Determining concession; still be bold 

Not only to slight praise but suffer 
scorn; 

And be thy heart a fortress to main- 
tain 

The day against the moment, and the 
year 

Against the day ; thy voice, a music 
heard 

Thro' all the yells and counter-yells 
of feud 

And faction, and thy will, a power to 
make 

This ever-changing world of circum- 
stance, 

In changing, chime with never-chang- 
ing Law. 



HANDS ALL ROUND. 

First pledge our Queen this solemn 
night, 

Then drink to England, every guest ; 
That man's the true Cosmopolite 

Who loves his native country best. 
May freedom's oak forever live 

With stronger life from day to day ; 
That man's the best Conservative 

Who lops the moulder'd branch 
away. 



638 



FREEDOM. 



Hands all round ! 
God the traitor's hope confound ! 
To this great cause of Freedom drink, 
my friends. 
And the great name of England, 
round and round. 
To all the loyal hearts who long 

To keep our English Empire whole ! 
To all our noble sons, the strong 

New England of the Southern Pole ! 
To England under Indian skies, 

To those dark millions of her realm ! 

To Canada whom we love and prize, 

Whatever statesman hold the helm. 

Hands all round ! 
God the traitor's hope confound ! 
To this great name of England drink, 
my friends, 
And all her glorious empire, round 
and round. 

To all our statesmen so they be 

True leaders of the land's desire ! 
To both our Houses, may they see 

Beyond the borough and the shire ! 
We sail'd wherever ship could sail, 

We founded many a mighty state ; 

Pray God our greatness may not fail 

Through craven fears of being great. 

Hands all round ! 
God the traitor's hope confound ! 
To this great cause of Freedom drink, 
my friends, 
And the great name of England, 
round and round. 



FREEDOM. 



O thou so fair in summers gone, 
While yet thy fresh and virgin soul 

Inform'd the pillar'd Parthenon, 
The glittering Capitol; 



So fair in southern sunshine bathed, 
But scarce of such majestic mien 

As here with forehead vapor-swathed 
In meadows ever green; 



in. 

For thou — when Athens reign'd and 
Rome, 
Thy glorious eyes were dimm'd 
with pain 
To mark in many a freeman's home 
The slave, the scourge, the chain ; 

IV. 

follower of the Vision, still 
In motion to the distant gleam, 

Howe'er blind force and brainless 
will 
May jar thy golden dream 



v. 

Of Knowledge fusing class with class, 
Of civic Hate no more to be, 

Of Love to leaven all the mass, 
Till every Soul be free ; 

VI. 

Who yet, like Nature, wouldst not 
mar 

By changes all too fierce and fast 
This order of Her Human Star, 

This heritage of the past ; 



O scorner of the party cry 

That wanders from the public good, 
Thou — when the nations rear on higli 

Their idol smear'd with blood, 

VIII. 

And when they roll their idol down — 
Of saner worship sanely proud ; 

Thou loather of the lawless crown 
As of the lawless crowd ; 

IX. 

How long thine ever-growing mind 
Hath still'd the blast and strown 
the wave, 

Tho' some of late would raise a wind 
To sing thee to thy grave, 



POETS AND THEIR BIBLIOGRAPHIES. 



639 



x. 



all forms of 



Men loud against 
power — 
Unfurnish'd brows, tempestuous 
tongues — 
Expecting all things in an hour — 
Brass mouths and iron lungs ! 



TO H.R.H. PRINCESS BEATRICE. 

Two Suns of Love make day of hu- 
man life, 
Which else with all its pains, and 

griefs, and deaths, 
Were utter darkness — one, the Sun 

of dawn 
That brightens thro' the Mother's 

tender eyes, 
And warms the child's awakening 

world — and one 
The later-rising Sun of spousal Love, 
Which from her household orbit 

draws the child 
To move in other spheres. The 

Mother weeps 
At that white funeral of the single life, 
Her maiden daughter's marriage ; 

and her tears 
Are half of pleasure, half of pain — 

the child 
Is happy — ev'n in leaving her I but 

Thou, 
True daughter, whose all-faithful, 

filial eyes 
Have seen the loneliness of earthly 

thrones, 
Wilt neither quit the widow'd Crown, 

nor let 
This later light of Love have risen in 

vain, 
But moving thro' the Mother's home, 

between 



The two that love thee, lead a sum- 
mer life, 

Sway'd by each Love, and swaying to 
each Love, 

Like some conjectured planet in mid 
heaven 

Between two Suns, and drawing down 
from both 

The light and genial warmth of 
double day. 



POETS AND THEIR BIBLIOG- 
RAPHIES. 

Old poets foster'd under friendlier 
skies, 
Old Virgil who would write ten 

lines, they say, 
At dawn, and lavish all the golden 
day 
To make them wealthier in his 

readers' eyes ; 
And you, old popular Horace, you the 
wise 
Adviser of the nine-years-ponder'd 
• lay, 

And you, that wear a wreath of 
sweeter bay, 
Catullus, whose dead songster never 

dies ; 
If, glancing downward on the kindly 
sphere 
That once had roll'd you round and 

round the Sun, 
You see your Art still shrined in 
human shelves, 
You should be jubilant that you flour- 
ish'd here 
Before the Love of Letters, over- 
done, 
Had swampt the sacred poets with 
themselves. 



640 LOCKSLEY HALL SLXTY YEARS AFTER. 



LOCKSLEY HALL SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 

Late, my grandson ! half the morning have I paced these sandy tracts, 
Watch'd again the hollow ridges roaring into cataracts, 

Wander'd back to living boyhood while I heard the curlews call, 
I myself so close on death, and death itself in Locksley Hall. 

So — your happy suit was blasted — she the faultless, the divine; 
And you liken — boyish babble — this boy-love of yours with mine. 

I myself have often babbled doubtless of a foolish past ; 
Babble, babble ; our old England may go down in babble at last. 

" Curse him ! " curse your fellow-victim ? call him dotard in your rage ? 
Eyes that lured a doting boyhood well might fool a dotard's age. 

Jilted for a wealthier! wealthier? yet perhaps she was not wise; 
I remember how you kiss'd the miniature with those sweet eyes. 

In the hall there hangs a painting — Amy's arms about my neck — 
Happy children in a sunbeam sitting on the ribs of wreck. 

In my life there was a picture, she that clasp'd my neck had flown; 
I was left within the shadow sitting on the wreck alone. 

Yours has been a slighter ailment, will you sicken for her sake ? 
You, not you ! your modern amourist is of easier, earthlier make. 

Amy loved me, Amy fail'd me, Amy was a timid child ; 

But your Judith — but your worldling — she had never driven me wild. 

She that holds the diamond necklace dearer than the golden ring, 
She that finds a winter sunset fairer than a morn of Spring. 

She that in her heart is brooding on his briefer lease of life, 
While she vows " till death shall part us," she the would-be-widow wife- 
She the worldling born of worldlings — father, mother — be content, 
Ev'n the homely farm can teach us there is something in descent. 

Yonder in that chapel, slowly sinking now into the ground, 
Lies the warrior, my forefather, with his feet upon the hound. 

Cross'd ! for once he sail'd the sea to crush the Moslem in his pride ; 
Dead the warrior, dead his glory, dead the cause in which he died. 

Yet how often I and Amy in the mouldering aisle have stood, 
Gazing for one pensive moment on that founder of our blood. 



LOCKSLEY HALL SLXTY YEARS AFTER. 641 

There again I stood to-day, and where of old we knelt in prayer, 

Close beneath the casement crimson with the shield of Locksley — there, 

All in white Italian marble, looking still as if she smiled, 

Lies my Amy dead in child-birth, dead the mother, dead the child. 

Dead — and sixty years ago, and dead her aged husband now, 

I this old white-headed dreamer stoopt and kiss'd her marble brow. 

Gone the fires of youth, the follies, furies, curses, passionate tears, 
Gone like fires and floods and earthquakes of the planet's dawning years. 

Fires that shook me once, but now to silent ashes falPn away. 
Cold upon the dead volcano sleeps the gleam of dying day. 

Gone the tyrant of my youth, and mute below the chancel stones, 
All his virtues — I forgive them — black in white above his bones. 

Gone the comrades of my bivouac, some in fight against the foe, 
Some thro' age and slow diseases, gone as all on earth will go. 

Gone with whom for forty years my life in golden sequence ran, 
She with all the charm of woman, she with all the breadth of man, 

Strong in will and rich in wisdom, Edith, loyal, lowly, sweet, 
Feminine to her inmost heart, and feminine to her tender feet, 

Very woman of very woman, nurse of ailing body and mind, 
She that link'd again the broken chain that bound me to my kind. 

Here to-day was Amy with me, while I wander'd down the coast, 
Near us Edith's holy shadow, smiling at the slighter ghost. 

Gone our sailor son thy father, Leonard early lost at sea ; 
Thou alone, my boy, of Amy's kin and mine art left to me. 

Gone thy tender-natured mother, wearying to be left alone, 
Pining for the stronger heart that once had beat beside her own. 

Truth, for Truth is Truth, he worshipt, being true as he was brave; 
Good, for Good is Good, he follow'd, yet he look'd beyond the grave, 

Wiser there than you, that crowning barren Death as lord of all, 
Deem this over-tragic drama's closing curtain is the pall ! 

Beautiful was death in him who saw the death but kept the deck, 
Saving women and their babes, and sinking with the sinking wreck, 

Gone forever! Ever? no — for since our dying race began, 
Ever, ever, and forever was the leading light of man. 



642 LOCKSLEY HALL SLXTY YEARS AFTER. 

Those that in barbarian burials kill'd the slave, and slew the wife, 
Felt within themselves the sacred passion of the second life. 

Indian warriors dream of ampler hunting grounds beyond the night ; 
Ev'n the black Australian dying hopes he shall return, a white. 

Truth for truth, and good for good ! The Good, the True, the Pure, the 

Just ; 
Take the charm " Forever " from them, and they crumble into dust. 

Gone the cry of " Forward, Forward," lost within a growing gloom ; 
Lost, or only heard in silence from the silence of a tomb. 

Half the marvels of my morning, triumphs over time and space, 
Staled by frequence, shrunk by usage into commonest commonplace ! 

"Forward" rang the voices then, and of the many mine was one. 
Let us hush this cry of " Forward " till ten thousand years have gone. 

Far among the vanish'd races, old Assyrian kings would flay 
Captives whom they caught in battle — iron-hearted victors they. 

Ages after, while in Asia, he that led the wild Moguls, 

Timur built his ghastly tower of eighty thousand human skulls, 

Then, and here in Edward's time, an age of noblest English names, 
Christian conquerors took and flung the conquer'd Christian into flames. 

Love your enemy, bless your haters, said the Greatest of the great ; 
Christian love among the Churches look'd the twin of heathen hate. 

From the golden alms of Blessing man had coin'd himself a curse: 
Rome of Caesar, Rome of Peter, which was crueller '? which was worse ? 

France had shown a light to all men, preach'd a Gospel, all men's good; 
Celtic Demos rose a Demon, shriek' d and slaked the light with blood. 

Hope was ever on her mountain, watching till the day begun, 
Crown'd with sunlight — over darkness — from the still unrisen sun. 

Have we grown at last beyond the passions of the primal clan ? 

" Kill your enemy, for you hate him," still, " your enemy " was a man. 

Have we sunk below them ? peasants maim the helpless horse, and drive 
Innocent cattle under thatch, and burn the kindlier brutes alive. 

Brutes, the brutes are not your wrongers — burnt at midnight, found at 

morn, 
Twisted hard in mortal agony with their offspring, born-unborn, 

Clinging to the silent mother ! Are we devils ? are we men ? 
Sweet St. Francis of Assisi, would that he were here again, 



LOCKSLEY HALL SLXTY YEARS AFTER. 643 

He that in his Catholic wholeness used to call the very flowers 

Sisters, brothers — and the beasts — whose pains are hardly less than ours! 

Chaos, Cosmos! Cosmos, Chaos ! who can tell how all will end ! 

Read the wide world's annals, you, and take their wisdom for your friend. 

Hope the best, but hold the. Present fatal daughter of the Past, 

Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream not that the hour will last. 

Ay, if dynamite and revolver leave you courage to be wise : 

When was age so cranim'd with menace ? madness % written, spoken lies ? 

Envy wears the mask of Love, and, laughing sober fact to scorn, 
Cries to Weakest as to Strongest, " Ye are equals, equal-born." 

Equal-born 1 O yes, if yonder hill be level with the flat. 
Charm us, Orator, till the Lion look no larger than the Cat. 

Till the Cat thro" that mirage of overheated language loom 
Larger than the Lion, — Demos end in working its own doom. 

Russia bursts our Indian barrier, shall we fight her 1 shall we yield ? 
Pause, before you sound the trumpet, hear the voices from the field. 

Those three hundred millions under one Imperial sceptre now, 

Shall we hold them 1 shall we loose them 1 take the suffrage of the plow. 

Nay, but these would feel and follow Truth if only you and you, 
Rivals of realm-ruining party, when you speak were wholly true. 

Plowmen, Shepherds, have I found, and more than once, and still could find, 
Sons of God, and kings of men in utter nobleness of mind, 

Truthful, trustful, looking upward to the practised hustings-liar ; 
So the Higher wields the Lower, while the Lower is the Higher. 

Here and there a cotter's babe is royal-born by right divine ; 
Here and there my lord is lower than his oxen or his swine. 

Chaos, Cosmos ! Cosmos, Chaos ! once again the sickening game ; 
Freedom, free to slay herself, and dying while they shout her name. 

Step by step we gain'd a freedom known to Europe, known to all ; 
Step by step we rose to greatness, — thro' the tonguesters we may fall. 

You that woo the Voices — tell them " old experience is a fool," 
Teach your flatter'd kings that only those who cannot read can rule. 

Pluck the mighty from their seat, but set no meek ones in their place ; 
Pillory Wisdom in your markets, pelt your offal at her face. 



644 LOCKSLEY HALL SLXTY YEARS AFTER. 

Tumble Nature heel o'er head, and, yelling with the yelling street, 
Set the feet above the brain and swear the brain is in the feet. 

Bring the old dark ages back without the faith, without the hope, 

Break the State, the Church, the Throne, and roll their ruins down the slope. 

Authors — atheist, essayist, novelist, realist, rhymester, play your part, 
Paint the mortal shame of nature with the living hues of Art. 

Bip your brothers* vices open, strip your own foul passions bare; 
Down with Reticence, down with Reverence — forward — naked — let them 
stare. 

Feed the budding rose of boyhood with the drainage of your sewer; 
Send the drain into the fountain, lest the stream should issue pure. 

Set the maiden fancies wallowing in the troughs of Zolaism, — 
Forward, forward, ay and backward, downward too into the abysm. 

Do your best to charm the worst, to lower the rising race of men ; 
Have we risen from out the beast, then back into the beast again 1 

Only " dust to dust" for me that sicken at your lawless din, 
Dust in wholesome old-world dust before the newer world begin. 

Heated am II you — you wonder — well, it scarce becomes mine age — 
Patience ! let the dying actor mouth his last upon the stage. 

Cries of unprogressive dotage ere the dotard fall asleep ? 
Noises of a current narrowing, not the music of a deep 1 

Ay, for doubtless I am old, and think gray thoughts, for I am gray : 
After all the stormy changes shall we find a changeless May 1 

After madness, after massacre, Jacobinism and Jacquerie, 
Some diviner force to guide us thro' the days I shall not see 1 

When the schemes and all the systems, Kingdoms and Republics fall, 
Something kindlier, higher, holier — all for each and each for all ? 

All the full-brain, half -brain races, led by Justice, Love, and Truth ; 
All the millions one at length, with all the visions of my youth 1 

All diseases quench'd by Science, no man halt, or deaf or blind; 
Stronger ever born of weaker, lustier body, larger mind ? 

Earth at last a warless world, a single race, a single tongue, 

I have seen her far away — for is not Earth as yet so young ? — 

Every tiger madness muzzled, every serpent passion kilPd, 
Every grim ravine a garden, every blazing desert till'd, 



LOCKSLEY HALL SLXTY YEARS AFTER. 645 

Robed in universal harvest up to either pole she smiles, 
Universal ocean softly washing all her warless Isles. 

Warless ? when her tens are thousands, and her thousands millions, then — 
All her harvest all too narrow — who can fancy warless men % 

Warless ? war will die out late then. Will it ever 1 late or soon 1 
Can it, till this outworn earth be dead as yon dead world the moon ? 

Dead the new astronomy calls her. ... On this day and at this hour, 
In this gap between the sandhills, whence you see the Locksley tower, 

Here we met, our latest meeting — Amy — sixty years ago — 
She and I — the moon was falling greenish thro' a rosy glow, 

Just above the gateway tower, and even where you see her now — 

Here we stood and claspt each other, swore the seeming-deathless vow. . . . 

Dead, but how her living glory lights the hall, the dune, the grass ! 
Yet the moonlight is the sunlight, and the sun himself will pass. 

Venus near her ! smiling downward at this earthlier earth of ours, 
Closer on the Sun, perhaps a world of never fading flowers. 

Hesper, whom the poet calPd the Bringer home of all good things. 
All good things may move in Hesper, perfect peoples, perfect kings. 

Hesper — Venus — were we native to that splendor or in Mars, 
We should see the Globe we groan in, fairest of their evening stars. 

Could we dream of wars and carnage, craft and madness, lust and spite, 
Roaring London, raving Paris, in that point of peaceful light ? 

Might we not in glancing heavenward on a star so silver-fair, 
Yearn, and clasp the hands and murmur, " Would to GoG that we were 
there " 1 

Forward, backward, backward, forward, in the immeasurable sea, 
Sway'd by vaster ebbs and flows than can be known to you or me. 

All the suns — are these but symbols of innumerable man, 
Man or Mind that sees a shadow of the planner or the plan? 

Is there evil but on earth ? or pain in every peopled sphere ? 
Well be grateful for the sounding watchword, "Evolution " here. 

Evolution ever climbing after some ideal good, 
And Reversion ever dragging Evolution in the mud. 

What are men that He should heed us 1 cried the king of sacred song; 
Insects of an hour, that hourly work their brother insect wrong, 



646 LOCKSLEY HALL SLXTY YEARS AFTER. 

While the silent Heavens roll, and Suns along their fiery way, 
All their planets whirling round them, flash a million miles a day. 

Many an JEon moulded earth before her highest, man, was born, 
Many an iEon too may pass when earth is manless and forlorn, 

Earth so huge, and yet so bounded — pools of salt, and plots of land — 
Shallow skin of green and azure — chains of mountain, grains of sand ! 

Only That which made us, meant us to be mightier by and by, 
Set the sphere of all the boundless Heavens within the human eye, 

Sent the shadow of Himself, the boundless, thro' the human soul ; 
Boundless inward, in the atom, boundless outward, in the Whole. 



Here is Locksley Hall, my grandson, here the lion-guarded gate. 
Not to-night in Locksley Hall — to-morrow — you, you come so late. 

Wreck'd — your train — or all but wreck'd ? a shatter'd wheel ? a vicious 

boy! 
Good, this forward, you that preach it, is it well to wish you joy 1 

Is it well that while we range with Science, glorying in the Time, 
City children soak and blacken soul and sense in city slime 1 

There among the glooming alleys Progress halts on palsied feet, 
Crime and hunger cast our maidens by the thousand on the street. 

There the Master scrimps his haggard sempstress of her daily bread, 
There a single sordid attic holds the living and the dead. 

There the smouldering fire of fever creeps across the rotted floor, 
And the crowded couch of incest in the warrens of the poor. 

Nay, your pardon, cry your "forward," yours are hope and youth, but I — 
Eighty winters leave the dog too lame to follow with the cry, 

Lame and old, and past his time, and passing now into the night; " 
Yet I would the rising race were half as eager for the light. 

Light the fading gleam of Even ? light the glimmer of the dawn ? 
Aged eyes may take the growing glimmer for the gleam withdrawn. 

Far away beyond her myriad coming changes earth will be 
Something other than the wildest modern guess of you and me. 

Earth may reach her earthly-worst, or if she gain her earthly-best, 
Would she find her human offspring this ideal man at rest ? 

Forward then, but still remember how the course of Time will swerve, 
Crook and turn upon itself in many a backward streaming curve. 



LOCKSLEY HALL SLXTY YEARS AFTER. 647 

Not the Hall to-night, my grandson ! Death and Silence hold their own. 
Leave the Master in the first dark hour of his last sleep alone. 

Worthier soul was he than I am, sound and honest, rustic Squire, 
Kindly landlord, boon companion — youthful jealousy is a liar. 

Cast the poison from your bosom, oust the madness from your brain. 
Let the trampled serpent show you that you have not lived in vain. 

Youthful ! youth and age are scholars yet but in the lower school, 
Nor is he the wisest man who never proved himself a fool. 

Yonder lies our young sea-village — Art and Grace are less and less : 
Science grows and Beauty dwindles — roofs of slated hideousness ! 

There is one old Hostel left us where they swing the Locksley shield, 
Till the peasant cow shall butt the " Lion passant " from his field. 

Poor old Heraldry, poor old History, poor old Poetry, passing hence, 
In the common deluge drowning old political common-sense ! 

Poor old voice of eighty crying after voices that have fled ! 
All I loved are vanish'd voices, all my steps are on the dead. 

All the world is ghost to me, and as the phantom disappears, 
Forward far and far from here is all the hope of eighty years. 



In this Hostel — I remember — I repent it o'er his grave — 

Like a clown — by chance he met me — I refused the hand he gave. 

From that casement where the trailer mantles all the mouldering bricks — 
I was then in early boyhood, Edith but a child of six — 

While I shelter'd in this archway from a day of driving showers — 
Peept the winsome face of Edith like a flower among the flowers. 

Here to-night! the Hall to-morrow, when they toll the Chapel bell ! 
Shall I hear in one dark room a wailing, " I have loved thee well." 

Then a peal that shakes the portal — one has come to claim his bride, 
Her that shrank, and put me from her, shriek'd, and started from my side — 

Silent echoes ! you, my Leonard, use and not abuse your day, 
Move among your people, know them, follow him who led the way, 

Strove for sixty widow'd years to help his homelier brother men, 

Served the poor, and built the cottage, raised the school, and drain'd the fen. 

Hears he now the Voice that wrong'd him ? who shall swear it cannot be 1 
Earth would never touch her worst, were one in fifty such as he. 



648 



THE FLEET 



Ere she gain her Heavenly-best, a God must mingle with the game: 
Nay, there may be those about us whom we neither, see nor name, 

Felt within us as ourselves, the Powers of Good, the Powers of 111, 
Strowing balm, or shedding poison in the fountains of the Will. 

Follow you the Star that lights a desert pathway, yours or mine. 
Forward, till you see the highest Human Nature is divine. 

Follow Light, and do the Right — for man can half-control his doom- 
Till you find the deathless Angel seated in the vacant tomb. 

Forward, let the stormy moment fly and mingle with the Past. 

I that loathed, have come to love him. Love will conquer at the last. 

Gone at eighty, mine own age, and I and you will bear the pall; 
Then I leave thee Lord and Master, latest Lord of Locksley Hall. 



THE FLEET. 1 
i. 
You, you, if you shall fail to under- 
stand 
What England is, and what her all- 
in-all, 
On you will come the curse of all the 
land, 
Should this old England fall 
Which Nelson left so great. 



1 The speaker said that "he should like to 
be assured that other outlying portions of 
the Empire, the Crown colonies, and impor- 
tant coaling stations were being as promptly 
and as thoroughly fortified as the various 
capitals of the self-governing colonies. He 
was credibly informed this was not so. It 
was impossible, also, not to feel some degree 
of anxiety about tbe efficacy of present pro- 
vision to defend and protect, by means of 
swift, well-armed cruisers, the immense mer- 
cantile fleet of the Empire. A third source 
of anxiety, so far as the colonies were con- 
cerned, was the apparently insufficient pro- 
vision for the rapid manufacture of arma- 
ments and their prompt despatch when or- 
dered to their colonial destination. Hence 
the necessity for manufacturing appliances 
equal to the requirements, not of Great Brit- 
ain alone, but of the whole Empire. But 
the keystone of the whole was the necessity 
for an overwhelmingly powerful fleet and 
efficient defence for all necessary coaling sta- 



ll. 

His isle, the mightiest Ocean-power 
on earth, 
Our own fair isle, the lord of every 
sea — 
Her fuller franchise — what would 
that be worth — 
Her ancient fame of Free — 
Were she ... a fallen state ? 



tions. This was as essential for tbe colonies 
as for Great Britain. It was the one condi- 
tion for the continuance of the Empire. All 
that Continental Powers did with respect to 
armies England should effect with her navy. 
It was essentially a defensive force, and 
could be moved rapidly from point to point, 
but it should be equal to all that was expected 
from it. It was to strengthen the fleet that 
colonists would first readily tax themselves, 
because they realized how essential a power- 
ful fleet was to the safety, not only of that 
extensive commerce sailing in every sea, but 
ultimately to tbe security of the distant por- 
tions of the Empire. Who could estimate 
the loss involved in even a brief period of 
disaster to the Imperial Navy. Any amount 
of money timely expended in preparation 
would be quite insignificant when compared 
with the possible calamity he had referred 
to." — Extract from Sir Graham Berry's 
Speech at the Colonial Institute, 9th Nov- 
ember, 1886. 



TO THE MARQUIS OF DUFFER IN AND AVA. 



649 



Her dauntless army scatter'd, and so 
small, 
Her island-myriads fed from alien 
lands — 
The fleet of England is her all-in-all ; 
Her fleet is in your hands, 
And in her fleet her Fate. 



You, you, that have the ordering of 
her fleet, 
If you should only compass her 
disgrace, 
When all men starve, the wild mob's 
million feet 
Will kick you from your place, 
But then too late, too late. 



OPENING OF THE INDIAN AND 
COLONIAL EXHIBITION BY 
THE QUEEN. 



Welcome, welcome with one voice ! 
In your welfare we rejoice, 
Sons and brothers that have sent, 
From isle and cape and continent, 
Produce of your field and flood, 
Mount and mine, and primal wood; 
Works of subtle brain and hand, 
And splendors of the morning land, 
Gifts from every British zone; 
Britons, hold your own! 



May we find, as ages run, 
The mother featured in the son ; 
And may yours forever be 
That old strength and constancy 
Which has made your fathers great 
In our ancient island State, 
And wherever her flag fly, 
Glorying between sea and sky, 
Makes the might of Britain known; 
Britons, hold your own ! 



Britain fought her sons of yore — 
Britain failed ; and never more, 
Careless of our growing kin, 
Shall we sin our fathers' sin, 
Men that in a narrower day — 
Unprophetic rulers they — 
Drove from out the mother's nest 
That young eagle of the West 
To forage for herself alone ; 
Britons, hold your own! 



Sharers of our glorious past, 
Brothers, must we part at last ? 
Shall we not thro' good and ill 
Cleave to one another still ? 
Britain's myriad voices call, 
" Sons, be wedded each and all, 
Into one imperial whole, 
One with Britain, heart and soul ! 
One life, one flag, one fleet, one 
Throne ! " 
Britons, hold your own ! 



TO THE MARQUIS OF DUF- 
FEFJN AND AVA. 



At times our Britain cannot rest, 
At times her steps are swift and 

rash ; 
She moving, at her girdle clash 

The golden keys of East and West. 



ii. 

Not swift or rash, when late she lent 
The sceptres of her West, her East, 
To one, that ruling has increased 

Her greatness and her self -content. 



Your rule has made the people love 
Their ruler. Your viceregal days 
Have added fulness to the phrase 

Of " Gauntlet in the velvet glove." 



650 



ON THE JUBILEE OF QUEEN VICTORIA, 



IV. 

But since your name will grow with 
Time, 
Not all, as honoring your fair fame 
Of Statesman, have I made the 
name 
A golden portal to my rhyme : 



But more, chat you and yours may 
know 
From me and mine, how dear a debt 
"We owed you, and are owing yet 

To you and yours, and still would owe. 

VI. 

For he — your India was his Fate, 
And drew him over sea to you — 
He fain had ranged her thro' and 
thro', 

To serve her myriads and the State, — 



A soul that, watch'd from earliest 
youth, 
And on thro' many a brightening 

year, 
Had never swerved for craft or fear, 
By one side-path, from simple truth ; 



Who might have chased and claspt 
Renown 
And caught her chaplet here — and 

there 
In haunts of jungle-poison'd air 
The flame of life went wavering down ; 



But ere he left your fatal shore, 
And lay on that funereal boat, 
Dying, " Unspeakable " he wrote 

" Their kindness," and he wrote no 
more; 



And sacred is the latest word ; 

And now The was, the Might-have- 
been, 



And those lone rites I have not seen, 
And one drear sound I have not heard, 



Are dreams that scarce will let me be, 
Not there to bid my boy farewell, 
When That within the coffin fell, 

Fell and flash'd into the Red Sea, 



Beneath a hard Arabian moon 

And alien stars. To question, why 
The sons before the fathers die, 

Not mine ! and I may meet him soon ; 



But while my life's late eve endures, 
Nor settles into hueless gray, 
My memories of his briefer day 

Will mix with love for you and yours. 



ON THE JUBILEE OF QUEEN 
VICTORIA. 



Fifty times the rose has flower'd 

and faded, 
Fifty times the golden harvest fallen, 
Since our Queen assumed the globe, 

the sceptre. 



She beloved for a kindliness 
Rare in Fable or History, 
Queen and Empress of India, 
Crown'd so long with a diadem 
Never worn by a worthier, 
Now with prosperous auguries 
Comes at last to the bounteous 
Crowning year of her Jubilee. 



Nothing of the lawless, of the Despot, 
Nothing of the vulgar, or vainglori- 
ous, 
All is gracious, gentle, great and 
Queenly. 



TO PROFESSOR J EBB. 



651 



You then joyfully, all of you, 
Set the mountain aflame to-night, 
Shoot your stars to the firmament, 
Deck your houses, illuminate 
All your towns for a festival, 
And in each let a multiude 
Loyal, each, to the heart of it, 
One full voice of allegiance, 
Hail the fair Ceremonial 
Of this year of her Jubilee. 



Queen, as true to womanhood as 

Queenhood, 
Glorying in the glories of her people, 
Sorrowing with the sorrows of the 

lowest ! 

VI. 

You, that wanton in affluence, 
Spare not now to be bountiful, 
Call your poor to regale with you, 
All the lowly, the destitute, 
Make their neighborhood health- 
fuller, 
Give your gold to the Hospital, 
Let the weary be comforted, 
Let the needy be banqueted, 
Let the maim'd in his heart rejoice 
At this glad Ceremonial, 
And this year of her Jubilee. 



Henry's fifty years are all in shadow, 
Gray with distance Edward's fifty 

summers, 
Ev'n her Grandsire's fifty half for- 
gotten. 

VIII. 

You, the Patriot Architect, 
You that shape for Eternity, 
Raise a stately memorial, 
Make it regally gorgeous, 
Some Imperial Institute, 
Rich in symbol, in ornament, 
Which may speak to the centuries, 
All the centuries after us, 



Of this great Ceremonial, 
And this year of her Jubilee. 



Fifty years of ever-broadening Com- 
merce ! 

Fifty years of ever-brightening Sci- 
ence ! 

Fifty years of ever- widening Empire ! 



You, the Mighty, the Fortunate, 
You, the Lord-territorial, 
You, the Lord-manufacturer, 
You, the hardy, laborious, 
Patient children of Albion, 
You, Canadian, Indian, 
Australasian, African, 
All your hearts be in harmony, 
All your voices in unison, 
Singing " Hail to the glorious 
Golden year of her Jubilee ! " 



Are there thunders moaning in the 

distance 1 
Are there spectres moving in the 

darkness % 
Trust the Hand of Light will lead 

her people, 
Till the thunders pass, the spectres 

vanish, 
And the Light is the Victor, and 

the darkness 
Dawns into the Jubilee of the Ages. 



TO PROFESSOR JEBB, 

WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM. 

Faik things are slow to fade away, 
Bear witness you, that yesterday l 
From out the Ghost of Pindar in 
you 
Roll'd an Olympian ; and they say 2 

1 In Bologna. 

2 They say, for the fact is doubtful. 



652 



DEMETER AND PERSEPHONE. 



That here the torpid mummy wheat 
Of Egypt bore a grain as sweet 

As that which gilds the glebe of 
England, 
Sunn'd with a summer of milder heat. 

So may this legend for awhile 
If greeted by your classic smile, 

Tho' dead in its Trinacrian Enna, 
Blossom again on a colder isle. 



DEMETER AND PERSEPHONE. 

(in enna.) 

Faint as a climate-changing bird that 
flies 

All night across the darkness, and at 
dawn 

Falls on the threshold of her native 
land, 

And can no more, thou earnest, my 
child, 

Led upward by the God of ghosts 
and dreams, 

Who laid thee at Eleusis, dazed and 
dumb 

With passing thro' at once from state 
to state, 

Until I brought thee hither, that the 
day, 

When here thy hands let fall the 
gather'd flower, 

Might break thro 5 clouded memories 
once again 

On thy lost self. A sudden nightin- 
gale 

Saw thee, and flash'd into a frolic of 
song 

And welcome ; and a gleam as of the 
moon, 

When first she peers along the tremu- 
lous deep, 

Fled wavering o'er thy face, and 
chased away 

That shadow of a likeness to the king 

Of shadows, thy dark mate. Per- 
sephone ! 

Queen of the dead no more — my 
child J Thine eyes 



Again were human-godlike, and the 
Sun 

Burst from a swimming fleece of win- 
ter gray, 

And robed thee in his day from head 
to feet — 

" Mother ! " and I was folded in thine 
arms. 

Child, those imperial, disimpas- 

sion'd, eyes 
Awed even me at first, thy mother — 

eyes 
That oft had seen the serpent-wanded 

power 
Draw downward into Hades with his 

drift 
Of flickering spectres, lighted from 

below 
By the red race of fiery Phlegethon ; 
But when before have Gods or men 

beheld 
The Life that had descended re-arise, 
And lighted from above him by the 

Sun? 
So mighty was the mother's childless 

cry, 
A cry that rang thro' Hades, Earth, 

and Heaven ! 

So in this pleasant vale we stand 

again, 
The field of Enna, now once more 

ablaze 
With flowers that brighten as thy 

footstep falls, 
All flowers — but for one black blur 

of earth 
Left by that closing chasm, thro' 

which the car 
Of dark Aidoneus rising rapt thee 

hence. 
And here, my child, tho' folded in 

thine arms, 
I feel the deathless heart of mother- 
hood 
Within me shudder, lest the naked 

glebe 
Should yawn once more into the 

gulf, and thence 
The shrilly whinnyings of the team 

of Hell, 



DEMETER AND PERSEPHONE. 



653 



Ascending, pierce the glad and song- 
ful air, 

And all at once their arch'd necks, 
midnight-maned, 

Jet upward thro' the mid-day blos- 
som. No ! 

For, see, thy foot has touch'd it ; all 
the space 

Of blank earth-baldness clothes itself 
afresh, 

And breaks into the crocus-purple 
hour 

That saw thee vanish. 

Child, when thou wert gone, 
I envied human wives, and nested 

birds, 
Yea, the cubb'd lioness ; went in 

search of thee 
Thxo' many a palace, many a cot, 

and gave 
Thy breast to ailing infants in the 

night, 
And set the mother waking in amaze 
To find her sick one whole ; and forth 

again 
Among the wail of midnight winds, 

and cried, 
" Where is my loved one 1 Where- 
fore do ye wail ? " 
And out from all the night an answer 

shrill'd, 
" We know not, and we know not why 

we wail/' 
I climb'd on all the cliffs of all the 

seas, 
And ask'd the waves that moan about 

the world 
" Where ? do ye make your moaning 

for my child ? " 
And round from all the world the 

voices came 
" We know not, and we know not why 

we moan." 
" Where " ? and I stared from every 

eagle-peak, 
I thridded the black heart of all the 

woods, 
I peer'd thro' tomb and cave, and in 

the storms 
Of Autumn swept across the city, 

and heard 



The murmur of their temples chant- 
ing me, 
Me, me, the desolate Mother! 

" Where "1 — and turned, 
And fled by many a waste, forlorn of 

man, 
And grieved for man thro' all my 

grief for thee, — 
The jungle rooted in his shatter'd 

hearth, 
The serpent coil'd about his broken 

shaft, 
The scorpion crawling over naked 

skulls ; — 
I saw the tiger in the ruin'd fane 
Spring from his fallen God, but trace 

of thee 
I saw not; and far on, and, following 

out 
A league of labyrinthine darkness, 

came 
On three gray heads beneath a gleam- 
ing rift. 
" Where " ? and I heard one voice 

from all the three 
" We know not, for we spin the lives 

of men, 
And not of Gods, and know not why 

we spin ! 
There is a Fate beyond us." Nothing 

knew. 

Last as the likeness of a dying 

man, 
Without his knowledge, from him 

flits to warn 
A far-off friendship that he comes no 

more, 
So he, the God of dreams, who heard 

my cry, 
Drew from thyself the likeness of 

thyself 
Without thy knowledge, and thy 

shadow past 
Before me, crying " The Bright one 

in the highest 
Is brother of the Dark one in the 

lowest, 
And Bright and Dark have sworn 

that I, the child 
Of thee, the great Earth-Mother, 

thee, the Power 



654 



DEMETER AND PERSEPHONE. 



That lifts her buried life from gloom 

to bloom, 
Should be forever and forevermore 
The Bride of Darkness." 

So the Shadow wail'd. 
Then I, Earth-Goddess, cursed the 

Gods of Heaven. 
I would not mingle with their feasts ; 

to me 
Their nectar smack'd of hemlock on 

the lips, 
Their rich ambrosia tasted aconite. 
The man, that only lives and loves an 

hour, 
Seem'd nobler than their hard Eter- 
nities. 
My quick tears kilPd the flower, my 

ravings hush'd 
The bird, and lost in utter grief I 

fail'd 
To send my life thro' olive-yard and 

vine 
And golden grain, my gift to helpless 

man. 
Rain-rotten died the wheat, the bar- 
ley-spears 
Were hollow-husk'd, the leaf fell, 

and the sun, 
Pale at my grief, drew down before 

his time 
Sickening, and vEtna kept her winter 

snow. 
/ Then He, the brother of this Dark- 
ness, He 
Who still is highest, glancing from 

his height 
On earth a fruitless fallow, when he 

miss'd 
The wonted steam of sacrifice, the 

praise 
And prayer of men, decreed that thou 

should'st dwell 
For nine white moons of each whole 

year with me, 
The three dark ones in the shadow 

with thy King. 

Once more the reaper in the gleam 
of dawn 
Will see me by the landmark far away, 
Blessing his field, or seated in the dusk 



Of even, by the lonely threshing-floor, 
Rejoicing in the harvest and the 

grange. 
Yet I, Earth-Goddess, am but ill- 
content 
With them, who still are highest. 

Those gray heads, 
What meant they by their "Fate 

beyond the Fates " 
But younger kindlier Gods to bear 

us down, 
As we bore down the Gods before us ? 

Gods, 
To quench, not hurl the thunderbolt, 

to stay, 
Not spread the plague, the famine ; 

Gods indeed, 
To send the noon into the night and 

break 
The sunless halls of Hades into 

Heaven % 
Till thy dark lord accept and love 

the Sun, 
And all the Shadow die into the 

Light, 
When thou shalt dwell the whole 

bright year with me, 
And souls of men, who grew beyond 

their race, 
And made themselves as Gods against 

the fear 
Of Death and Hell; and thou that 

hast from men, 
As Queen of Death, that worship 

which is Fear, 
Henceforth, as having risen from out 

the dead, 
Shalt ever send thy life along withmine 
From buried grain thro' springing 

blade, and bless 
Their garner'd Autumn also, reap 

with me, 
Earth-mother, in the harvest hymns 

of Earth 
The worship which is Love, and see 

no more 
The Stone, the Wheel, the dimly- 
glimmering lawns 
Of that Elysium, all the hateful fires 
Of torment, and the shadowy warrior 

glide 
Along the silent field of Asphodel, 



OWD ROA. 655 



OWD ROA. 1 

Naay, noa mander 2 o' use to be callin' ; m Roa, Roa, Roa, 

Fo' the dog's stoan-deaf, an' e's blind, 'e can neither stan' nor goa. 

But I means fur to maake 'is owd aage as 'appy as iver I can, 
Fur I owas owd Roiiver moor nor I iver owad mottal man. 

Thou's rode of 'is back when a babby, afoor thou was gotten too owd, 
For 'e'd fetch an' carry like owt, 'e was alius as good as gowd. 

Eh, but 'e'd fight wi' a will when 'e fowt; 'e could howd 3 'is oan, 
An' Roa was the dog as knaw'd when an' wheere to bury his boane. 

An' 'e kep his head hoop like a king, an' 'e'd niver not down wi' 'is taail, 
Fur 'e'd niver done nowt to be shaamed on, when we was i' Howlaby Daale. 

An' 'e sarved me sa well when 'e lived, that, Dick, when 'e cooms to be dead, 
I thinks as I'd like fur to hev soom soort of a sarvice read. 

Fur 'e's moor good sense na the Parliament man 'at stans fur us 'ere, 
An' I'd voat fur 'im, my oan sen, if 'e could but stan fur the Shere. 

"Faaithful an' True" — them words be 'Scriptur — an' Faaithful an' True 
Ull be fun' 4 upo' four short legs ten times fur one upo' two. 

An' maaybe they'll walk upo' two but I knaws they runs upo' four, 5 — 
Bedtime, Dicky ! but waait till tha 'ears it be strikin' the hour. 

Fur I wants to tell tha o' Roa when we lived i' Howlaby Daale, 

Ten year sin — Naay — naay ! tha mun nobbut hev' one glass of aale. 

Straange an' owd-farran'd 6 the 'ouse, an' belt 7 long afoor my daay 
Wi' haafe o' the ehimleys a-twizzen'd. 8 an' twined like a band o' haay. 

The fellers as maakes them picturs, 'ud coom at the fall o' the year, 
An' sattle their ends upo stools to pictur the door-poorch theere, 

An' the Heagle 'as lied two heads stannin' theere o' the brokken stick; 9 
An' they niver 'ed seed sich ivin' 10 as graw'd hall ower the brick; 

An' theere i' the 'ouse one night — but it's down, an' all on it now 
Goan into mangles an' tonups, 11 an' raaved slick thruf by the plow — 

Theere, when the 'ouse wur a house, one night I wur sittin' aloan, 
Wi' Rotiver athurt my feeiit, an' sleeapin still as a stoan, 

1 Old Rover. 2 Manner. 3 Hold. 4 Found. B " Ou " as in " house." 

c " Owd-farran'd," old-fashioned. 7 Built. 8 " Twizzen'd," twisted. 

y On a staff raguU. 10 Ivy. " Mangolds and turnips. 



656 OWD ROA. 



Of a Christmas Eave, an' as cowd as this, an' the midders x as white, 
An' the fences all on 'em bolster'd oop wi' the windle 2 that night ; 

An' the cat wur a-sleeapin alongside Roaver, but I wur awaake, 

An' smoakin' an' thinkin' o' things — ■ Doant maake thysen sick wi' the caake. 

Fur the men ater supper 'ed sung their songs an' 'ed 'ed their beer, 

An' 'ed goan their waays ; ther was nobbut three, an' noan on 'em theere. 

They was all on 'em fear'd o' the Ghoast an' dussn't not sleeap i' the 'ouse, 
But Dicky, the Ghoast moastlins 3 was nobbut a rat or a mouse. 

An' I loookt out wonst 4 at the night, an' the daale was all of a thaw, 
Fur I seed the beck coomin' down like a long black snaake i' the snaw, 

An' I heard great heaps o' the snaw slushin' down fro' the bank to the beck, 
An' then as I stood i' the doorwaay, I feeald it drip o' my neck. 

Saw I turn'd in age'an, an' I thowt o' the good owd times 'at was goan, 
An' the munney they maade by the war, an' the times 'at was coomin' on ; 

Fur I thowt if the Staate was a gawin' to let in furriners wheat, 
Howiver was British farmers to stan' agean o' their feeat. 

Howiver was I fur to find my rent an' to paay my men ? 
An' all along o' the feller 5 as turn'd 'is back of hissen. 

Thou slep i' the chaumber above us, we couldn't ha' 'e'ard tha call, 
Sa Moother 'ed tell'd ma to bring tha down, an' thy craadle an' all ; 

Fur the gell o' the farm 'at slep wi' tha then 'ed gotten wer leave, 
Fur to goa that night to 'er foalk by cause o' the Christmas Eave; 

But I clean forgot tha, my lad, when Moother 'ed gotten to bed, 

An' I slep i' my chair hup-on-end, an' the Freea Traade runn'd i' my 'ead, 

Till I dream'd 'at Squire walkt in, an' I says to him " Squire, ya're laate," 
Then I seed at 'is faace wur as red as the Yuleblock theer i' the graate. 

An' 'e says " can ya paay me the rent to-night 1 " an' I says to 'im " No'a," 
An' 'e cotch'd howd hard o' my hairm, 6 " Then hout to-night tha shall goa." 

" Tha'll niver," says I, " be a-turnin ma hout upo' Christmas Eave ? " 
Then I waaked an' I fun it was Roaver a-tuggin' an' tearin' my slieave. 

An' I thowt as 'e'd goan clean-wud, 7 fur I noawaeys knaw'd 'is intent; 
An' I says " Git awaay, ya be'ast," an' I fetcht 'im a kick an' 'e went. 

Then 'e tummled up stairs, fur I 'e'ard 'im, as if Vd 'a brokken 'is neck, 
An' I'd clear forgot, little Dicky, thy chaumber door wouldn't sneck ; 8 

1 Meadows. 2 Drifted enow, 3 " Moastlins," for the most part, generally. 

4 Once. °Peel. ° Arm. t Mad. 8 Latch. 



OWD ROA. 657 



An' I slep' i' my chair agean wi' my hairm hingin' down to the floor, 
An' I thowt it was Roiiver a-tuggin' an' tearin' me wuss nor afoor, 

An' I thowt 'at I kick'd 'im agean, but I kick'd thy Moother istead. 
" "What arta snorin' theere fur % the house is afire," she said. 

Thy Moother 'ed bean a-naggin' about the gell o' the farm, 

She off ens 'ud spy summut wrong when there warn't not a mossel o' harm ; 

An' she didn't not solidly mean I wur gawin' that waay to the bad, 
Fur the gell l was as howry a trollope as iver traaps'd i' the squad. 

But Moother was free of 'er tongue, as I offens 'ev tell'd 'er mysen, 
Sa I kep i' my chair, fur I thowt she was nobbut a-rilin' ma then. 

An' I says "I'd be good to tha, Bess, if tha'd onywaays let ma be good," 
But she skelpt ma haafe ower i' the chair, an' screead like a Howl gone wud 2 — 

" Ya mun run fur the lether. 3 Git oop, if ya're onywaays good for owt." 
And I says " If I beant noawaays — not nowadaays — good fur nowt — 

" Yit I beant sich a Nowt 4 of all Nowts as 'ull hallus do as 'e's bid." 
" But the stairs is afire," she said ; then I seed 'er a-cryin', I did. 

An' she beald " Ya mun saave little Dick, an' be sharp about it an' all," 
Sa I runs to the yard fur a lether, an' sets 'im agean the wall, 

An' I claums an' I mashes the winder hin, when I gits to the top, 
But the heat druv hout i' my heyes till I feald mysen ready to drop. 

Thy Moother was howdin' the lether, an' tellin' me not to be skeard, 
An' I wasn't afeard, or I thinks leastwaays as I wasn't af eard ; 

But I couldn't see for the smoake wheere thou was a-liggin, my lad, 
An' Roaver was theere i' the chaumber a-yowlin' an' yaupin' like mad ; 

An* thou was a-bealin' likewise, an' a-squealin', as if tha was bit, 
An' it wasn't a bite but a burn, fur the merk's 5 o' thy shou'der yit ; 

Then I call'd out Roa, Roa, Roa, thaw I didn't haafe think as 'e'd 'ear, 
But 'e coom'd thruf the Jire wi' my bairn i' 's mouth to the winder theere! 

He coom'd like a Hangel o' marcy as soon as 'e 'eard 'is naame, 
Or like tother Hangel i' Scriptur 'at summun seed i' the flaame, 

When summun 'ed hax'd fur a son, an' 'e promised a son to she, 
An' Roa was as good as the Hangel i' saavin' a son fur me. 

1 The girl was as dirty a slut as ever trudged in the mud, hut there is a sense of slatternli- 
ness in " traapes'd " which is not expressed in " trudged." 

2 She half overturned me and shrieked like an owl gone mad. 3 Ladder. 
4 A thoroughly insignificant or worthless person. 6 Mark. 



658 VASTNESS. 



Sa I browt tha down, an' I says " I mun gaw up agean fur Roa." 
" Gaw up agean fur the varmint ? " I tell'd 'er " Yeas I maun goa." 

An' I claumb'd up agean to the winder, an' clemm'd x owd Roa by the 'ead, 
An' 'is 'air coom'd off i' my 'ands an' I taaked 'im at fust fur dead ; 

Fur 'e smell'd like a herse a-singein', an' seeam'd as blind as a poop, 
An' haafe on 'im bare as a bublin'. 2 I couldn't wakken 'im oop, 

But I browt 'im down, an' we got to the barn, fur the barn wouldn't burn 
Wi' the wind blawin' hard tother waay, an' the wind wasn't like to turn. 

An' I kep a-callin' o' Roa till 'e waggled 'is taail fur a bit, 

But the cocks kep a-crawin' an' crawin' all night, an' I 'ears 'em yitj 

An' the dogs was a-yowlin' all round, and thou was a-squealin' thysen, 
An' Moother was naggin' an' groanin an' moanin' an' naggin' agean ; 

An' I 'eard the bricks an' the baulks 3 rummle down when the roof gev waay, 
Fur the fire was a-raagin' an' raavin' an' roarin' like judgment daay. 

Warm enew theere sewer-ly, but the barn was as cowd as owt, 

An' we cuddled and huddled togither, an' happt 4 wersens oop as we mowt. 

An' I browt Ro'a round, but Moother 'ed bean sa so'ak'd wi' the thaw 
'At she cotch'd 'er death o' cowd that night, poor soul, i' the straw. 

Haafe o' the parish runn'd oop when the rigtree 5 was tummlin' in — 
Too laate — but it's all ower now — hall hower — an' ten year sin ; 

Too laate, tha mun git tha to bed, but I'll coom an' I'll squench the light, 
Eur we moant 'ev naw moor fires — and soa little Dick, good-night. 



VASTNESS. 



Many a hearth upon our dark globe sighs after many a vanish'd face, 
Many a planet by many a sun may roll with the dust of a vanish'd race. 



Raving politics, never at rest — as this poor earth's pale history runs, — 
What is it all but a trouble of ants in the gleam of a million million of suns ? 



Lies upon this side, lies upon that side, truthless violence mourn'd by the 

Wise, 
Thousands of voices drowning his own in a popular torrent of lies upon lies ; 

1 Clutched. 2 " Bubbling," a young unfledged bird. 3 Beams. 4 Wrapt ourselves. 
6 The beam that runs along the roof of the house just beneath the ridge. 



VASTNESS. 659 



IV. 

Stately purposes, valor in battle, glorious annals of army and fleet, 
Death for the right cause, death for the wrong cause, trumpets of victory, 
groans of defeat; 

v. 

Innocence seethed in her mother's milk, and Charity setting the martyr 

aflame ; 
Thraldom who walks with the banner of Freedom, and recks not to ruin a 

realm in her name. 

VI. 

Faith at her zenith, or all but lost in the gloom of doubts that darken the 

schools ; 
Craft with a bunch of all-heal in her hand, follow'd up by her vassal legion 

of fools ; 

VII. 

Trade flying over a thousand seas with her spice and her vintage, her silk and 
her corn ; fl 

Desolate offing, sailorless harbors, famishing populace, wharves forlorn ; 

VIII. 

Star of the morning, Hope in the sunrise ; gloom of the evening, Life at a 

close ; 
Pleasure who flaunts on her wide down-way with her flying robe and her 

poison'd rose ; 

IX. 

Pain, that has crawl'd from the corpse of Pleasure, a worm which writhes all 

day, and at night 
Stirs up again in the heart of the sleeper, and stings him back to the curse of 

the light; 

x. 

Wealth with his wines and his wedded harlots ; honest Poverty, bare to the 

bone ; 
Opulent Avarice, lean as Poverty ; Flattery gilding the rift in a throne ; 



Fame blowing out from her golden trumpet a jubilant challenge to Time and 

to Fate ; 
Slander, her shadow, sowing the nettle on all the laurePd graves of the Great; 

XII. 

Love for the maiden, crown'd with marriage, no regrets for aught that has 

been, 
Household happiness, gracious children, debtless competence, golden mean ; 



National hatreds of whole generations, and pigmy spites of the village spire; 
Vows that will last to the last death-ruckle, and vows that are snapt in a 
moment of fire ; 



660 



THE RING. 



He that has lived for the lust of the minute, and died in the doing it, flesh 

without mind ; 
He that has nail'd all flesh to the Cross, till Self died out in the love of his 

kind; 

xv. 

Spring and Summer and Autumn and Winter, and all these old revolutions of 

earth ; 
All new-old revolutions of Empire — change of the tide — what is all of 

it worth ? 



What the philosophies, all the sciences, poesy, varying voices of prayer ? 
All that is noblest, all that is basest, all that is filthy with all that is fair ? 



What is it all, if we all of us end but in being our own corpse-coffins at last, 
swallow'd in Vas 



Past? 



Vastness, lost in Silence, drown'd in the deeps of a meaningless 



What but a murmur of gnats in the gloom, or a moment's anger of bees in 
their hive 1 — 



Peace, let it be! for I loved him, and love Mm forever: the dead are not 
dead but alive. 



Dedicated to the Hon. J. Russell Lowell. 

THE KING. 

Miriam and her Father. 

miriam (singing}. 

Mellow moon of heaven, 

Bright in blue, 
Moon of married hearts, 

Hear me, you ! 

Twelve times in the year 

Bring me bliss, 
Globing Honey Moons 

Bright as this. 

Moon, you fade at times 

From the night. 
Young again you grow 

Out of sight. 



Silver crescent-curve, 
Coming soon, 

Globe again, and make 
Honey Moon. 

Shall not my love last, 
Moon, with you, 

For ten thousand years 
Old and new 7 



And who was he with such love- 
drunken eyes 

They made a thousand honey moons 
of one ? 



The prophet of his own, my Hubert 
— his 



THE RING. 



661 



The words, and mine the setting. 

" Air and Words," 
Said Hubert, when I sang the song, 

" are bride 
And bridegroom." Does it please 

you ? 

FATHER. 

Mainly, child, 
Because I hear your Mother's voice 

in yours. 
She , why, you shiver tho' the 

wind is west 
With all the warmth of summer. 

MIRIAM. 

Well, I felt 
On a sudden I know not what, a 

breath that past 
With all the cold of winter. 

father (muttering to himself). 

Even so. 
The Ghost in Man. the Ghost that 

once was Man, 
But cannot wholly free itself from 

Man, 
Are calling to each other thro' a dawn 
Stranger than earth has ever seen; 

the veil 
Is rending, and the Voices of the day 
Are heard across the Voices of the dark. 
No sudden heaven, nor sudden hell, 

for man, 
But thro' the Will of One who knows 

and rules — 
And utter knowledge is but utter 

love — 
iEonian Evolution, swift or slow, 
Thro' all the Spheres — an ever open- 
ing height, 
An ever lessening earth — and she 

perhaps, 
My Miriam, breaks her latest earthly 

link 
With me to-day. 



You speak so low, what is it 1 
Your " Miriam breaks " — is making 

a new link 
Breaking an old one ? 



No, for we, my child, 
Have been till now e^-ch other's all- 
in-all. 

MIRIAM. 

And you the lifelong gr ardian of the 
child. 



I, and one other whom you nave not 
known. 

MIRIAM. 

And who ? what other ? 



Whither are you bound ? 
For Naples which we only left in 
May? 



No ! father, Spain, but Hubert brings 

me home 
With April and the swallow. Wish 

me joy ! 



What need to wish when Hubert 

weds in you 
The heart of Love, and you the soul 

of Truth 
In Hubert ? 



Tho' you used to* call me once 
The lonely maiden-Princess of the 

wood, 
Who meant to sleep her hundred 

summers out 
Before a kiss should wake her. 



Ay, but now 
Your fairy Prince has found you, 
take this ring. 



662 



THE RING. 



'* Io t'amo " — and these diamonds — 

beautiful ! 
"From Walter," and for me from 

you then ? 



FATHER. 

One way for Miriam. 



Well, 



MIRIAM. 

Miriam am I not ? 



This ring bequeath'd you by your 

mother, child, 
Was to be given you — such her 

dying wish — 
Given on the morning when you came 

of age 
Or on the day you married. Both 

the days 
Now close in one. The ring is doubly 

yours. 
Why do you look so gravely at the 

tower? 



I never saw it yet so all ablaze 

With creepers crimsoning to the pin- 
nacles, 

As if perpetual sunset linger'd there, 

And all ablaze too in the lake below ! 

And how the birds that circle round 
the tower 

Are cheeping to each other of their 
flight 

To summer lands ! 



And that has made you grave? 

Fly — care not. Birds and brides 
must leave the nest. 

Child, I am happier in your happi- 
ness 

Than in mine own. 

MIRIAM. 

It is not that ! 



FATHER. 

What else? 

MIRIAM. 

That chamber in the tower. 

FATHER. 

What chamber, child ? 
Your nurse is here ? 

MIRIAM. 

My Mother's nurse and mine. 
She comes to dress me in my bridal 
veil. 

FATHER. 

What did she say ? 

MIRIAM. 

She said, that you and I 
Had been abroad for my poor health 

so long 
She fear'd I had forgotten her, and I 

ask'd 
About my Mother, and she said, 

" Thy hair 
Is golden like thy Mother's, not so 

fine." 

FATHER. 

What then ? what more ? 



She said — perhaps indeed 
She wander'd, having wander'd now 

so far 
Beyond the common date of death — 

that you, 
When I was smaller than the statuette 
Of my dear Mother on your bracket 

here — 
You took me to that chamber in the 

tower, 
The topmost — a chest there, by which 

you knelt — 
And there were books and dresses — 

left to me, 
A ring too which you kiss'd, and I, 

she said, 



THE RING. 



663 



I babbled, Mother, Mother — as I used 
To prattle to her picture — stretch'd 

my hands 
As if I saw her; then a woman came 
And caught me from my nurse. I 

hear her yet — 
A sound of anger like a distant storm. 

FATHER. 

Garrulous old crone. 

MIRIAM. 

Poor nurse ! 



I bad her keep, 
Like a seal'd book, all mention of 

the ring, 
For I myself would tell you all to-day. 



" She too might speak to-day," she 

mumbled. Still, 
I scarce have learnt the title of your 

book, 
But you will turn the pages. 

FATHER. 

Ay, to-day ! 
I brought you to that chamber on 

your third 
September birthday with your nurse, 

and felt 
An icy breath play on me, while I 

stoopt 
To take and kiss the ring. 



Io t'amo? 



This very ring 



Yes, for some wild hope was mine 
That, in the misery of my married life, 
Miriam your Mother might appear to 

me. 
She came to you, not me. The storm, 

you hear 
Far-off, is Muriel — your step- 
mother's voice. 



MIRIAM. 

Vext, that you thought my Mother 

came to me 1 
Or at my crying " Mother % " or to find 
My Mother's diamonds hidden from 

her there, 
Like worldly beauties in the Cell, 

not shown 
To dazzle all that see them ? 

FATHER. 

Wait a while. 
Your Mother and step-mother — 

Miriam Erne 
And Muriel Erne — the two were 

cousins — lived 
With Muriel's mother on the down, 

that sees 
A thousand squares of corn and 

meadow, far 
As the gray deep, a landscape which 

your eyes 
Have many a time ranged over when 

a babe. 

MIRIAM. 

I climb'd the hill with Hubert yester- 
day, 

And from the thousand squares, one 
silent voice 

Came on the wind, and seem'd to 
say " Again." 

We saw far off an old forsaken house, 

Then home, and past the ruin'd mill. 

FATHER. 

And there 
I found these cousins often by the 

brook, 
For Miriam sketch'd and Muriel 

threw the fly ; 
The girls of equal age, but one was 

fair, 
And one was dark, and both were 

beautiful. 
No voice for either spoke within my 

heart 
Then, for the surface eye, that only 

doats 
On outward beauty, glancing from 

the one 



664 



THE RING. 



To the other, knew not that which 

pleased it most, 
The raven ringlet or the gold; but 

both 
Were dowerless, and myself, I used 

to walk 
This Terrace — morbid, melancholy; 

mine 
And yet not mine the hall, the farm, 

the field; 
For all that ample woodland whis- 

per'd " debt," 
The brook that, feeds this lakelet 

murmur'd "debt," 
And in yon arching avenue of old 

elms, 
Tho' mine, not mine, I heard the 

sober rook 
And carrion crow cry " Mortgage." 



MIRIAM. 



Father's fault 



Visited on the children 



Ay, but then 

A kinsman, dying, summon'd me to 
Rome — 

He left me wealth — and while I 
journey'd hence, 

And saw the world fly by me like a 
dream, 

And while I communed with my 
truest self, 

I woke to all of truest in myself, 

Till, in the gleam of those mid-sum- 
mer dawns, 

The form of Muriel faded, and the face 

Of Miriam grew upon me, till I knew ; 

And past and future mix'd in Heaven 
and made 

The rosy twilight of a perfect day. 



So glad ? no tear for him, who left 

you wealth, 
Your kinsman % 

FATHER. 

I had seen the man but once ; 
He loved my name not me ; and then 
I pass'd 



Home, and thro' Venice, where a 

jeweller, 
So far gone down, or so far up in life, 
That he was nearing his own hundred, 

sold 
This ring to me, then laugh'd "the 

ring is weird." 
And weird and worn and wizard-like 

was he. 
" Why weird % " I ask'd him; and he 

said "The souls 
Of two repentant Lovers guard the 

ring;" 
Then with a ribald twinkle in his 

bleak eyes — 
" And if you give the ring to any maid, 
They still remember what it cost 

them here, 
And bind the maid to love you by 

the ring; 
And if the ring were stolen from the 

maid, 
The theft were death or madness to 

the thief, 
So sacred those Ghost Lovers hold 

the gift." 
And then he told their legend : 

" Long ago 
Two lovers parted by a scurrilous tale 
Had quarrell'd, till the man repenting 

sent 
This ring ' Io t'amo' to his best be- 
loved, 
And sent it on her birthday. She in 

wrath 
Return'd it on her birthday, and that 

day 
His death-day, when, half -frenzied by 

the ring, 
He wildly fought a rival suitor, him 
The causer of that scandal, fought 

and fell ; 
And she that came to part them all 

too late, 
And found a corpse and silence, drew 

the ring 
From his dead finger, wore it till her 

death, 
Shrined him within the temple of her 

heart, 
Made every moment of her after life 



THE RING. 



665 



A virgin victim to his memory, 

And dying rose, and rear'd her arms, 

and cried 
' I see hkn, Io t'amo, Io t'amo.' " 



Logend or true ? so tender should be 

true ! 
Did he believe it 1 ? did you ask him ? 



Ay! 
But that half skeleton, like a barren 

ghost 
From out the fleshless world of spirits, 

laugh'd : 
A hollow laughter ! 



Vile, so near the ghost 
Himself, to laugh at love in death ! 
But you? 



Well, as the bygone lover thro' this 
ring 

Had sent his cry for her forgiveness, I 

Would call thro' this " Io t'amo " to 
the heart 

Of Miriam ; then I bad the man en- 
grave 

" From Walter " on the ring, and send 
it — wrote 

Name, surname, all as clear as noon, 
but he — 

Some younger hand must have en- 
graven the ring — 

His fingers were so stiffen'd by the 
frost 

Of seven and ninety winters, that he 
acrawFd 

A "Miriam" that might seem a 
" Muriel"; 

And Muriel claim'd and open'd what 
I meant 

For Miriam, took the ring, and 
flaunted it 

Before that other whom I loved and 
love. 
A mountain stay'd me here, a min- 
ster there, 



A galleried palace, or a battlefield, 
Where stood the sheaf of Peace : but 

— coming home — 
And on your Mother's birthday — all 

but yours — 
A week betwixt — and when the tower 

as now 
Was all ablaze with crimson to the 

roof, 
And all ablaze too plunging in the lake 
Head-foremost — who were those that 

stood between 
The tower and that rich phantom of 

the tower ? 
Muriel and Miriam, each in white, 

and like 
May -blossoms in mid autumn — was 

it they 1 
A light shot upward on them from 

the lake. 
What sparkled there 1 whose hand 

was that ? they stood 
So close together. I am not keen of 

sight, 
But coming nearer — Muriel had the 

ring — 
" O Miriam ! have you given your 

ring to her? 
O Miriam!" Miriam redden'd, Muriel 

clench'd 
The hand that wore it, till I cried 

again : 
" O Miriam, if you love me take the 

ring ! " 
She glanced at me, at Muriel, and 

was mute. 
" Nay, if you cannot love me, let it be." 
Then — Muriel standing ever statue- 
like— 
She turn'd, and in her soft imperial 

way 
And saying gently : " Muriel, by your 

leave," 
Unclosed the hand, and from it drew 

the ring, 
And gave it me, who pass'd it down 

her own, 
"Io t'amo, all is well then." Muriel 

fled. 



MIRIAM. 



Poor Muriel ! 



666 



THE RING. 



Ay, poor Muriel when you hear 
What follows;,! Miriam loved me 

from the first, 
Not thro' the ring ; but on her mar- 
riage-morn 
This birthday, death-day, and be- 
trothal ring, 
Laid on her table overnight, was gone ; 
And after hours of search and doubt 

and threats, 
And hubbub, Muriel enter'd with it, 

"See! — 
Found in a chink of that old moulder'd 

floor ! " 
My Miriam nodded with a pitying 

smile, 
As who should say " that those who 

lose can find/' 
Then I and she were married for a 

year, 
One year without a storm, or even a 

cloud ; 
And you my Miriam born within the 

year ; 
And she my Miriam dead within the 

year. 
I sat beside her dying, and she gaspt : 
" The books, the miniature, the lace 

are hers, 
My ring too w r hen she comes of age, 

or when 
She marries; you — you loved me, 

kept your word. 
You love me still ' Io t'amo.' — Muriel 

— no — 
She cannot love ; she loves her own 

hard self, 
Her firm will, her fix'd purpose. 

Promise me, 
Miriam not Muriel — she shall have 

the ring." 
And there the light of other life, 

which lives 
Beyond our burial and our buried eyes, 
Gleam'd for a moment in her own on 

earth. 
I swore the vow, then with my latest 

kiss 
Upon them, closed her eyes, which 

would not close, 



But kept their watch upon the ring 

and you. 
Your birthday was her death-day. 

MIRIAM. 

O poor Mother ! 
And you, poor desolate Father, and 

poor me, 
The little senseless, worthless, word- 
less babe, 
Saved when your life was wreck'd ! 

m 

FATHER. 

Desolate ? yes ! 
Desolate as that sailor whom the 

storm 
Had parted from his comrade in the 

boat, 
And dash'd half dead on barren 

sands, was I. 
Nay, you were my one solace ; only 

— you 
Were alw r ays ailing. Muriel's mother 

sent, 
And sure am I, by Muriel, one day 

came 
And saw you, shook her head, and 

patted yours, 
And smiled, and making with a kindly 

pinch 
Each poor pale cheek a momentary 

rose — 
" That should be fix'd," she said ; 

" your pretty bud, 
So blighted here, would flower into 

full health 
Among our heath and bracken. Let 

her come ! 
And we will feed her with our moun- 
tain air, 
And send her home to you rejoicing." 

No — 
We could not part. And once, when 

you my girl 
Rode on my shoulder home — the 

tiny fist 
Had graspt a daisy from your Mother's 

grave — 
By the lych-gate was Muriel. " Ay," 

she said, 
" Among the tombs in this damp vale 

of yours ! 



THE RING. 



667 



You scorn my Mother's warning, but 

the child 
Is paler than before. We often walk 
In open sun, and see beneath our 

feet 
The mist of autumn gather from your 

lake, 
And shroud the tower; and once we 

only saw 
Your gilded vane, a light above the 

mist " — 
(Our old bright bird that still is 

veering there 
Above his four gold letters) "and 

the light," 
She said, " was like that light " — and 

there she paused, 
And long; till I believing that the 

girl's 
Lean fancy, groping for it, could not 

find 
One likeness, laugh'd a little and 

found her two — 
" A warrior's crest above the cloud of 

war " — 
" A fiery phoenix rising from the 

smoke, 
The pyre he burnt in." — " Nay," she 

said, "the light 
That glimmers on the marsh and on 

the grave." 
And spoke no more, but turn'd and 

pass'd away. 
Miriam, I am not surely one of 

those 
Caught by the flower that closes on 

the fly, 
But after ten slow weeks her fix'd 

intent, 
In aiming at an all but hopeless mark 
To strike it, struck; I took, I left 

you there ; 
I came, I went, was happier day by 

day; 
For Muriel nursed you with a moth- 
er's care ; 
Till on that clear and heather-scented 

height 
The rounder cheek had brighten'd 

into bloom. 
She always came to meet me carrying 

you, 



And all her talk was of the babe she 

loved ; 
So, following her old pastime of the 

brook, 
She threw the fly for me ; but of tener 

left 
That angling to the mother. " Muriel's 

health 
Had weaken'd, nursing little Miriam. 

Strange ! 
She used to shun the wailing babe, 

and doats 
On this of yours." But when the 

matron saw 
That hinted love was only wasted 

bait, 
Not risen to, she was bolder. " Ever 

since 
You sent the fatal ring" — I told her 

" sent 
To Miriam," "Doubtless — ay, but 

ever since 
In all the world my dear one sees 

but you — 
In your sweet babe she finds but you 

— she makes 

Her heart a mirror that reflects but 

you." 
And then the tear fell, the voice 

broke. Her heart! 
I gazed into the mirror, as a man 
Who sees his face in water, and a stone, 
That glances from the bottom of the 

pool, 
Strike upward thro' the shadow; yet 

at last, 
Gratitude — loneliness — desire to 

keep 
So skilled a nurse about you always 

— nay! 

Some half remorseful kind of pity 

too — 
Well ! well, you know I married 

Muriel Erne. 
" I take thee Muriel for my wedded 

wife " — 
I had forgotten it was your birthday, 

child — 
When all at once with some electric 

thrill 
A co)d air pass'd between us, and the 

hands 



668 



THE RING. 



Fell from each other, and were join'd 

again. 
No second cloudless honeymoon 

was mine. 
For by and by she sicken'd of the 

farce, 
She dropt the gracious mask of 

motherhood, 
She came no more to meet me, carry- 
ing you, 
Nor ever cared to set you on her knee, 
Nor ever let you gambol in her sight, 
Nor ever cheer'd you with a kindly 

smile, 
Nor ever ceased to clamor for the 

ring; 
Why had I sent the ring at first to 

her? 
Why had I made her love me thro' 

the ring, 
And then had changed 1 so fickle are 

men — the best ! 
Not she — but now my love was hers 

again, 
The ring by right, she said, was hers 

again. 
At times too shrilling in her angrier 

moods, 
"That weak and watery nature love 

you? No! 
' To t'amo, lo t'amo ' ! " flung herself 
Against my heart, but often while 

her lips 
Were warm upon my cheek, an icy 

breath, 
As from the grating of a sepulchre, 
Past over both. I told her of my 

vow, 
No pliable idiot I to break my vow ; 
But still she made her outcry for the 

ring; 
For one monotonous fancy madden'd 

her, 
Till I myself was madden'd with her 

cry, 
And even that "lo t'amo," those 

three sweet 
Italian words became a weariness. 
My people too were scared with 

eerie sounds, 
A footstep, a low throbbing in the 

walls, 



A noise of falling weights that never 
fell, 

Weird whispers, bells that rang with- 
out a hand, 

Door-handles turn'd when none was 
at the door, 

And bolted doors that open'd of them- 
selves : 

And one betwixt the dark and light 
had seen 

Her, bending by the cradle of her 
babe. 

MIRIAM. 

And I remember once that being 

waked 
By noises in the house — and no one 

near — 
I cried for nurse, and felt a gentle 

hand 
Fall on my forehead, and a sudden 

face 
Look'd in upon me like a gleam and 

pass'd, 
And I was quieted, and slept again. 
Or is it some half memory of a dream? 

FATHER. 

Your fifth September birthday. 

MIRIAM. 

And the face, 
The hand, — my Mother. 



Miriam, on that day 
Two lovers parted by no scurrilous 

tale — 
Mere want of gold — and still for 

twenty years 
Bound by the golden cord of their 

first love — 
Had ask'd us to their marriage, and 

to share 
Their marriage - banquet. Muriel, 

paler then 
Than ever you were in your cradle, 

moan'd, 
" I am fitter for my bed, or for my 

grave, 
I cannot go, go you." And then she 

rose, 



THE RING. 



669 



She clung to me with such a hard 

embrace, 
So lingeringly long, that half-amazed 
I parted from her, and I went alone. 
And when the bridegroom murmur'd, 

" With this ring," 
I felt for what I could not find, the 

key, 
The guardian of her relics, of her 

ring. 
I kept it as a sacred amulet 
About me, — gone ! and gone in that 

embrace ! 
Then, hurrying home, I found her 

not in house 
Or garden — up the tower — an icy 

air 
Fled by me. — There, the chest was 

open — all 
The sacred relics tost about the 

floor — 
Among them Muriel lying on her 

face — 
I raised her, call'd her " Muriel, 

Muriel wake ! " 
The fatal ring lay near her; the 

glazed eye 
Glared at me as in horror. Dead ! 

I took 
And chafed the freezing hand. A red 

mark ran 
All round one finger pointed straight, 

the rest 
Were crumpled inwards. Dead ! — 

and maybe stung 
With some remorse, had stolen, worn 

the ring — 
Then torn it from her finger, or as 

if — 
For never had I seen her show 

remorse — 
Asif — 

MIRIAM. 

— those two Ghost lovers — 



Lovers yet 



Yes, yes 



FATHER. 

— but dead so long, gone up so far, 
That now their ever-rising life has 

dwarf'd 
Or lost the moment of their past on 

earth, 
As we forget our wail at being born. 
Asif — 

MIRIAM. 

a dearer ghost had — 

FATHER. 

— wrench'd it away. 

MIRIAM. 

Had floated in witli sad reproachful 

eyes, 
Till from her own hand she had torn 

the ring 
In fright, and fallen dead. And I 

myself 
Am half afraid to wear it. 

FATHER. 

Well, no more ! 
No bridal music this ! but fear not you ! 
You have the ring she guarded; that 

poor link 
With earth is broken, and has left her 

free, 
Except that, still drawn downward 

for an hour, 
Her spirit hovering by the church, 

where she 
Was married too, may linger, till she 

sees 
Her maiden coming like a Queen, who 

leaves 
Some colder province in the North to 

gain 
Her capital city, where the loyal bells 
Clash welcome — linger, till her own, 

the babe 
She lean'd to from her Spiritual sphere, 
Her lonely maiden-Princess, crown'd 

with flowers, 
Has enter'd on the larger woman-world 
Of wives and mothers. 

But the bridal veil — 
Your nurse is waiting. Kiss me child 
and go. 



670 



FORLORN. 



FORLORN. 



" He is fled — I wish him dead — 
He that wrought my ruin — 

the flattery and the craft 
Which were my undoing . . . 
In the night, in the night, 
When the storms are blowing. 

ii. 

'' Who was witness of the crime '? 

Who shall now reveal it? 
He is fled, or he is dead, 

Marriage will conceal it . . . 

In the night, in the night, 

While the gloom is growing." 



Catherine, Catherine, in the night 
What is this you're dreaming ? 

There is laughter down in Hell 
At your simple scheming . . . 
In the night, in the night, 
When the ghosts are fleeting. 



You to place a hand in his 
Like an honest woman's, 

You that lie with wasted lung 
Waiting for your summons 
In the night, the night ! 
O the deathwatch beating ! 



There will come a witness soon 
Hard to be confuted, 

All the world will hear a voice 
Scream you are polluted . . , 
In the night ! O the night, 
When the owls are wailing ! 



Shame and marriage, Shame and 
marriage, 
Fright and foul dissembling, 
Bantering bridesman, reddening 
priest, 
Tower and altar trembling . . . 
In the night, O the night, 
VVhen the mind is failing ! 



Mother, dare you kill your child 
How your hand is shaking ! 

Daughter of the seed of Cain, 
What is this you're taking ? . 
In the night, O the night, 
While the house is sleeping. 



Dreadful! has it come to this, 

O unhappy creature ? 
You that would not tread on a worm 

For your gentle nature . . . 

In the night, O the night, 

O the night of weeping ! 



Murder would not veil your sin, 

Marriage will not hide it, 
Earth and Hell will brand your name, 

Wretch you must abide it . . . 

In the night, O the night, 

Long before the dawning. 



Up, get up, and tell him all, 

Tell him you were lying ! 
Do not die with a lie in your mouth, 

You that know you're dying . . . 

In the night, O the night, 

While the grave is yawning. 



No — you will not die before, 
Tho' you'll ne'er be stronger ; 

You will live till that is born, 
Then a little longer . . . 
In the night, O the night, 
While the Fiend is prowling. 



Death and marriage, Death and mar- 
riage ! 

Funeral hearses rolling ! 
Black with bridal favors mixt ! 

Bridal bells with tolling ! . . . 

In the night, O the night, 

When the wolves are howling. 



HAPPY. 



671 



XIII. 

Up, get up, the time is short, 
Tell him now or never ! 

Tell him all before you die, 
Lest you die for ever . . . 
In the night, O the night, 
Where there's no forgetting. 



Up she got, and wrote him all, 

All her tale of sadness, 
Blister'd every word with tears, 

And eased her heart of madness . 

In the night, and nigh the dawn, 

And while the moon was setting. 



HAPPY. 



THE LEPER'S BRIDE. 



Why wail you, pretty plover ? and what is it that you fear? 

Is he sick your mate like mine ? have you lost him, is he lied ? 
And there — the heron rises from his watch beside the mere, 

And flies above the leper's hut, where lives the living-dead. 



Come back, nor let me know it ! would he live and die alone % 
And has he not forgiven me yet, his over-jealous bride, 

Who am, and was, and will be his, his own and only own, 

To share his living death with him, die with him side by side ? 

in. 

Is that the leper's hut on the solitary moor, 

Where noble Ulric dwells forlorn, and wears the leper's weed? 
The door is open. He ! is he standing at the door, 

My soldier of the Cross ? it is he and he indeed ! 

IV. 

My roses — will he take them noiv — mine, his — from off the tree 
We planted both together, happy in our marriage morn ? 

O God, 1 could blaspheme, for he fought Thy fight for Thee, 
And Thou hast made him leper to compass him with scorn — 

v. 

Hast spared the flesh of thousands, the coward and the base, 

And set a crueller mark-than Cain's on him, the good and brave! 

He sees me, waves me from him. I will front him face to face. 
You need not wave me from you. I would leap into your grave. 



My warrior of the Holy Cross and of the conquering sword, 
The roses that you cast aside — once more I bring you these. 

No nearer 1 do you scorn me when you tell me O my lord, 

You would not mar the beauty of your bride with your disease. 



672 HAPPY. 



You say your body is so foul — then here I stand apart, 

Who yearn to lay my loving head upon your leprous breast. 

The leper plague may scale my skin but never taint my heart; 
Your body is not foul to me, and body is foul at best. 



I loved you first when young and fair, but now I love you most; 

The fairest flesh at last is filth on which the worm will feast ; 
This poor rib-grated dungeon of the holy human ghost, 

This house with all its hateful needs no cleaner than the beast, 



This coarse diseaseful creature which in Eden was divine, 
This Satan-haunted ruin, this little city of sewers, 

This wall of solid flesh that comes between your soul and mine, 
Will vanish and give place to the beauty that endures, 



The beauty that endures on the Spiritual height, 

When we shall stand transfigured, like Christ on Hermon hill, 

And moving each to music, soul in soul and light in light, 
Shall flash thro' one another in a moment as we will. 



Foul! foul! the word was yours not mine, I worship that right hand 
Which felPd the foes before you as the woodman fells the wood, 

And sway'd the sword that lighten'd back the sun of Holy land, 
And clove the Moslem crescent moon, and changed it into blood. 



And once I worshipt all too well this creature of decay, 

For Age will chink the face, and Death will freeze the supplest limbs • 

Yet you in your mid manhood — O the grief when yesterday 
They bore the Cross before you to the chant of funeral hymns. 



" Libera me, Domine ! " you sang the Psalm, and when 

The Priest pronounced you dead, and flung the mould upon your feet, 

A beauty came upon your face, not that of living men, 
But seen upon the silent brow when life has ceased to beat. 



"Libera nos, Domine" — you knew not one was there 

Who saw you kneel beside your bier, and weeping scarce could see; 

May I come a little nearer, I that heard, and changed the prayer 
And sang the married " nos " for the solitary " me." 



HAPPY. 673 



My beauty marred by you ? by you ! so be it. All is well 
If I lose it and myself in the higher beauty, yours. 

My beauty lured that falcon from his eyry on the fell, 
Who never caught one gleam of the beauty which endures — 



The Count who sought to snap the bond that link'd us life to life, 
Who whisper'd me " your Ulric loves " — a little nearer still — 

He hiss'd, "Let us revenge ourselves, your Ulric woos my wife"- 
A lie by which he thought he could subdue me to his will. 



I knew that you were near me when I let him kiss my brow ; 

Well, he kiss'd me on the lips, I was jealous, anger'd, vain, 
And I meant to make you jealous. Are you jealous of me no. 

Your pardon, O my love, if I ever gave you pain. 



You never once accused me, but I wept alone, and sigh'd 
In the winter of the Present for the summer of the Past ; 

That icy winter silence — how it froze you from your bride, 
Tho' I made one barren effort to break it at the last. 



I brought you, you remember, these roses, when I knew 

You were parting for the war, and you took them tho' you frown'd; 

You frown'd and yet you kiss'd them. All at once the trumpet blew, 
And you spurr'd your fiery horse, and you hurl'd them to the ground. 



You parted for the Holy War without a word to me, 

And clear myself unask'd — not I. My nature was too proud. 

And him I saw but once again, and far away was he, 

When I was praying in a storm — the crash was long and loud — 



That God would ever slant His bolt from falling on your head — 
Then I lifted up my eyes, he was coming down the fell — 

I clapt my hands. The sudden fire from Heaven had dash'd him dead, 
And sent him charr'd and blasted to the deathless fire of Hell. 



See, I sinn'd but for a moment. I repented and repent, 
And trust myself forgiven by the God to whom I kneel. 

A little nearer ? Yes. I shall hardly be content 

Till I be leper like yourself, my love, from head to heel. 



674 HAPPY. 



foolish dreams, that you, that I, would slight our marriage oath : 
I held you at that moment even dearer than before ; 

Now God has made you leper in His loving care for both, 
That we might cling together, never doubt each other more. 

XXIV. 

The Priest, who join'd you to the dead, has join'd our hands of old ; 

If man and wife be but one flesh, let mine be leprous too, 
As dead from all the human race as if beneath the mould; 

If you be dead, then I am dead, who only live for you. 

XXV. 

Would Earth tho' hid in cloud not be f ollow'd by the Moon ? 

The leech forsake the dying bed for terror of his life 1 
The shadow leave the Substance in the brooding light of noon ? 

Or if / had been the leper would you have left the wife ? 

XXVI. 

Not take them ? Still you wave me off — poor roses — must I go — 
I have worn them year by year — from the bush we both had set — 

What 1 fling them to you ? — well — that were hardly gracious. No ! 
Your plague but passes by the touch. A little nearer yet! 

XXVII. 

There, there ! he buried you, the Priest; the Priest is not to blame, 
He joins us once again, to his either office true : 

1 thank him. I am happy, happy. Kiss me. In the name 

Of the everlasting God, I will live and die with you. 

[Dean Milman has remarked that the protection and care afforded by the Church to this 
blighted race of lepers was among the most beautiful of its offices during the Middle Ages. 
The leprosy of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries was supposed to be a legacy of the 
crusades, but was in all probability the offspring of meagre and unwholesome diet, miserable 
lodging and clothing, physical and moral degradation. The services of the Church in the 
seclusion of these unhappy sufferers were most affecting. The stern duty of looking to 
the public welfare is tempered with exquisite compassion for the victims of this loathsome 
disease. The ritual for the sequestration of the leprous differed little from the burial 
service. After the leper had been sprinkled with holy water, the priest conducted him 
into the church, the leper singing the psalm ''Libera me domine," and the crucifix and 
bearer going before. In the church a black cloth was stretched over two trestles in front of 
the altar, and the leper leaning at its side devoutly heard mass. The priest, taking up a little 
earth in his cloak, threw it on one of the leper's feet, and put him out of the church, if it did 
not rain too heavily; took him to his hut in the midst of the fields, and then uttered the 
prohibitions: " I forbid you entering the church ... or entering the company of others. I 
forbid you quitting your home without your leper's dress." He concluded: "Take this 
dress, and wear it in token of humility; take these gloves, take this clapper, as a sign that 
you are forbidden to speak to any one/ You are not to be indignant at being thus separated 
from others, and as to your little wants, good people will provide for you, and God will not 
desert you." Then in this old ritual follow these sad words: "When it shall come to pass 
that the leper shall pass out of this world, he shall be buried in his hut, and not in the church- 
yard." At first there was a doubt whether wives should follow their husbands who had been 
leprous, or remain in the world and marry again. The Church decided that the marriage- 
tie was indissoluble, and so bestowed on these unhappy beings this immense source of con- 
solation. With a love stronger than this living death, lepers were followed into banishment 
from the haunts of men by their faithful wives. Readers of Sir J. Stephen's Essays on 
Ecclesiastical Biography will recollect the description of the founder of the Franciscan 
order, how, controllint;,- his involuntary disgust, St. Francis of Assisi washed the feet and 
dressed the sores of the lepers, once at least reverently applying his lips to their wounds. — 
Boucher-James.] 

This ceremony of g?msi-burial varied considerably at different times and in different places. 
In some cases a grave was dug, and the leper's face was often covered during the service. 



TO ULYSSES. 



675 



TO ULYSSES. 

" Ulysses," the title of a number of essays 
by W.Gt. Palgrave. He died at Montevideo 
before seeing either this volume or my 
poem. 

I. 
Ulysses, much-experienced man, 
Whose eyes have known this globe 

of ours, 
Her tribes of men, and trees, and 
flowers, 
From Corrientes to Japan. 



To you that bask below the Line, 
I soaking here in winter wet — ■ 
The century's three strong eights 
have met 

To drag me down to seventy-nine. 

in. 
In summer if I reach my day — 
To you, yet young, who breathe the 

balm 
Of summer-winters by the palm 
And orange grove of Paraguay, 

IV. 

I tolerant of the colder time, 

Who love the winter woods, to trace 
On paler heavens the branching 
grace 

Of leafless elm, or naked lime, 

v. 
And see my cedar green, and there 
My giant ilex keeping leaf 
When frost is keen and days are 
brief — 
Or marvel how in English air 



My yucca, which no winter quells, 
Altho' the months have scarce be- 
gun, 
Has push'd toward our faintest sun 

A spike of half-accomplish'd bells — 



Or watch the waving pine which here 
The warrior of Caprera set, 1 

1 Garibaldi said to me, alluding to his bar- 
ren island, " I wish I had your trees." 



A name that earth will not forget 
Till earth has roll'd her latest year — 



I, once half-crazed for larger light 
On broader zones beyond the foam, 
But chaining fancy now at home 

Among the quarried downs of Wight, 



Not less would yield full thanks to 
you 
For your rich gift, your tale of 

lands 
I know not, 1 your Arabian sands ; 
Your cane, your palm, tree-fern, bam- 
boo, 



The wealth of tropic bower and 
brake ; 
Your Oriental Eden-isles, 2 
Where man, nor only Nature smiles ; 

Your wonder of the boiling lake ; 3 



Phra-Chai, the Shadow of the Best, 4 
Phra-bat 5 the step ; your Pontic 

coast; 
Crag-cloister; 6 Anatolian Ghost; 7 
Hong-Kong, 8 Karnac, 9 and all the 
rest. 



Thro' which I follow'd line by line 
Your leading hand, and came, my 

friend, 
To prize your various book, and 
send 
A gift of slenderer value, mine. 

i The tale of Nejd. 

2 The Philippines. 

3 In Dominica. 

4 The shadow of the Lord. Certain ob- 
scure markings on a rock in Siam, which ex- 
press the image of Budda to the Buddhist 
more or less distinctly according to his faith 
and his moral worth. 

s The footstep of the Lord on another 
rock. 

6 The monastery of Sumelas. 

7 Anatolian Spectre stories. 

8 The three cities. 

9 Travels in Egypt. 



676 



TO MARY BOYLE. 



TO MARY BOYLE. 

WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM. 
I. 

" Spring-flowers " ! While you still 
delay to take 
Your leave of Town, 
Our elmtree's ruddy-hearted blossom- 
flake 
Is fluttering down. 

II. 

Be truer to your promise. There ! I 
heard 

One cuckoo call. 
Be needle to the magnet of your word, 

Nor wait, till all 



Our vernal bloom from every vale and 
plain 
And garden pass, 
And all the gold from each laburnum 
chain 
Drop to the grass. 



Is memory with your Marian gone to 
rest, 
Dead with the dead ? 
For ere she left us, when we met, you 
prest 
My hand, and said 



"I come with your spring-flowers." 
You came not, friend ; 
My birds would sing, 
You heard not. Take then this spring- 
flower I send, 
This song of spring, 



Found yesterday — forgotten mine 
own rhyme 

By mine old self, 
As I shall be forgotten by old Time, 

Laid on the shelf — 



VII. 

A rhyme that flower'd betwixt the 
whitening sloe 
And kingcup blaze, 
And more than half a hundred years 
ago, 
In rick-fire days, 



When Dives loathed the times, and 
paced his land 
In fear of worse, 
And sanguine Lazarus felt a vacant 
hand 
Fill with his purse. 



For lowly minds were madden'd to 
the height 
By tonguester tricks, 
And once — I well remember that red 

night 
When thirty ricks, 



All flaming, made an English home- 
stead Hell — 
These hands of mine 
Have helpt to pass a bucket from the 
well 
Along the line, 



When this bare dome had not begun 
to gleam 
Thro' youthful curls, 
And you were then a lover's fairy 
dream, 
His girl of girls ; 



And you, that now are lonely, and 
with Grief 
Sit face to face, 
Might find a flickering glimmer of 
relief 
In change of place. 



THE PROGRESS OF SPRING. 



677 



What use to brood ? this life of min- 
gled pains 
And joys to me, 
Despite of every Faith and Creed, 
remains 
The Mystery. 



Let golden youth bewail the friend, 
the wife, 
For ever gone. 
He dreams of that long walk thro' 
desert life 
Without the one. 

xv. 

The silver year should cease to mourn 
and sigh — 
Not long to wait — 
So close are we, dear Mary, you and 
I 
To that dim gate. 



Take, read ! and be the faults your 
Poet makes 
Or many or few, 
He rests content, if his young music 
wakes 
A wish in you 



To change our dark Queen-city, all 
her realm 
Of sound and smoke, 
For his clear heaven, and these few 
lanes of elm 
And whispering oak. 



That trembles not to kisses of the 
bee : 
Come Spring, for now from all the 
dripping eaves 
The spear of ice has wept itself 
away, 
And hour by hour unfolding wood- 
bine leaves 
O'er his uncertain shadow droops 
the day. 
She comes! The loosen 'd rivulets 
run; 
The frost-bead melts upon her 
golden hair ; 
Her mantle, slowly greening in the 
Sun, 
Now wraps her close, now arching 

leaves her bare 
To breaths of balmier air ; 



THE PROGRESS OF SPRING. 



The groundflame of the crocus breaks 
the mould, 
Fair Spring slides hither o'er the 
Southern sea, 

Wavers on her thin stem the snow- 
drop cold 



Up leaps the lark, gone wild to wel- 
come her, 
About her glance the tits, and 
shriek the jays, 
Before her skims the jubilant wood- 
pecker, 
The linnet's bosom blushes at her 
gaze, 
While round her brows a woodland 
culver flits, 
Watching her large light eyes and 
gracious looks, 
And in her open palm a halcyon sits 
Patient — the secret splendor of 
the brooks. 
Come Spring! She comes on waste 
and wood, 
On farm and field : but enter also 
here, 
Diffuse thyself at will thro' all my 
blood, 
And, tho' thy violet sicken into sere, 
Lodge with me all the year! 



Once more a downy drift against the 
brakes, 
Self-darken'd in the sky, descend- 
ing slow ! 

But gladly see I thro' the wavering 
flakes 



678 



THE PROGRESS OF SPRING. 



Yon blanching apricot like snow in 
snow. 
These will thine eyes not brook in 
forest-paths, 
On their perpetual pine, nor round 
the beech ; 
They fuse themselves to little spicy 
baths, 
Solved in the tender blushes of the 
peach ; 
They lose themselves and die 

On that new life that gems the 
hawthorn line; 
Thy gay lent-lilies wave and put 
them by, 
And out once more in varnish'd 

glory shine 
Thy stars of celandine. 



She floats across the hamlet. Heaven 
lours, 
But in the tearful splendor of her 
smiles 
I see the slowly-thickening chestnut 
towers 
Fill out the spaces by the barren 
tiles. 
Now past her feet the swallow cir- 
cling flies, 
A clamorous cuckoo stoops to meet 
her hand ; 
Her light makes rainbows in my 
closing eyes, 
I hear a charm of song thro' all 
the land. 
Come, Spring ! She comes, and Earth 
is glad 
To roll her North below thy deep- 
ening dome, 
But ere thy maiden birk be wholly 
clad, 
And these low bushes dip their 

twigs in foam, 
Make all true hearths thy home. 



Across my garden ! and the thicket 
stirs, 
The fountain pulses high in sunnier 

jets, 



The blackcap warbles, and the turtle 
purrs, 
The starling claps his tiny casta- 
nets. 
Still round her forehead wheels the 
woodland dove, 
And scatters on her throat the 
sparks of dew, 
The kingcup fills her footprint, and 
above 
Broaden the glowing isles of ver- 
nal blue. 
Hail ample presence of a Queen, 

Bountiful, beautiful, apparell'd gay, 
Whose mantle, every shade of glanc- 
ing green, 
Flies back in fragrant breezes to 

display 
A tunic white as May ! 



She whispers, " From the South I 
bring you balm, 
For on a tropic mountain was I 
born, 
While some dark dweller by the coco- 
palm 
Watch'd my far meadow zoned 
with airy morn ; 
From under rose a muffled moan of 
floods ; 
I sat beneath a solitude of snow ; 
There no one came, the turf was 
fresh, the woods 
Plunged gulf on gulf thro' all their 
vales below. 
I saw beyond their silent tops 

The steaming marshes of the scar- 
let cranes, 
The slant seas leaning on the man- 
grove copse, 
And summer basking in the sultry 

plains 
About a land of canes ; 



" Then from my vapor-girdle soar- 
ing forth 
I scaled the buoyant highway of 
the birds, 



MERLIN AND THE GLEAM. 



679 



And drank the dews and drizzle of 
the North, 
That I might mix with men, and 
hear their words 
On pathway'd plains ; for — while my 
hand exults 
Within the bloodless heart of lowly 
flowers 
To work old laws of Love to fresh 
results, 
Thro' manifold effect of simple 
powers — 
I too would teach the man 

Beyond the darker hour to see the 
bright, 
That his fresh life may close as it 
began, 
The still-fulfilling promise of a 

light 
Narrowing the bounds of night." 



So wed thee with my soul, that I may 
mark 
The coming year's great good and 
varied ills, 
And nsw developments, whatever 
spark 
Be struck from out the clash of 
warring wills ; 
Or whether, since our nature cannot 
rest, 
The smoke of war's volcano burst 
again 
From hoary deeps that belt the 
changeful West, 
Old Empires, dwellings of the 
kings of men ; 
Or should those fail, that hold the 
helm, 
While the long day of knowledge 
grows and warms, 
And in the heart of this most ancient 
realm 
A hateful voice be utter'd, and 

alarms 
Sounding "To arms ! to arms ! " 



A simpler, saner lesson might he 
learn 



Who reads thy gradual process, 
Holy Spring. 
Thy leaves possess the season in their 
turn, 
And in their time thy warblers rise 
on wing. 
How surely glidest thou from March 
to May, 
And changest, breathing it, the 
sullen wind, 
Thy scope of operation, day by day, 
Larger and fuller, like the human 
mind ! 
Thy warmths from bud to bud 

Accomplish that blind model in the 
seed, 
And men have hopes, which race the 
restless blood, 
That after many changes may suc- 
ceed 
Life, which is Life indeed. 



MERLIN AND THE GLEAM. 



young Mariner, 
You from the haven 
Under the sea-cliff, 
You that are watching 
The gray Magician 
With eyes of wonder, 
/ am Merlin, 

And / am dying, 

1 am Merlin 

Who follow The Gleam. 



Mighty the Wizard 
Who found me at sunrise 
Sleeping, and woke me 
And learn'd me Magic ! 
Great the Master, 
And sweet the Magic, 
When over the valley, 
In early summers, 
Over the mountain, 
On human faces, 
And all around me, 
Moving to melody, 
Floated The Gleam. 



680 



MERLIN AND THE GLEAM. 



Once at the croak of a Raven 

who crost it, 
A barbarous people, 
Blind to the magic, 
And deaf to the melody, 
Snarl'd at and cursed me. 
A demon vext me, 
The light retreated, 
The landskip darken'd, 
The melody deaden'd, 
The Master whisper'd 
" Follow The Gleam." 



Then to the melody, 

Over a wilderness 

Gliding, and glancing at 

Elf of the woodland, 

Gnome of the cavern, 

Griffin and Giant, 

And dancing of Fairies 

In desolate hollows, 

And wraiths of the mountain, 

And rolling of dragons 

By warble of water, 

Or cataract music 

Of falling torrents, 

Flitted The Gleam. 



Down from the mountain 

And over the level, 

And streaming and shining on 

Silent river, 

Silvery willow, 

Pasture and plowland, 

Horses and oxen, 

Innocent maidens, 

Garrulous children, 

Homestead and harvest, 

Reaper and gleaner, 

And rough-ruddy faces 

Of lowly labor, 

Slided The Gleam.— 



Then, with a melody 
Stronger and statelier, 
Led me at length 
To the city and palace 



Of Arthur the king ; 
Touch'd at the golden 
Cross of the churches, 
Flash'd on the Tournament, 
Flicker'd and bicker'd 
From helmet to helmet, 
And last on the forehead 
Of Arthur the blameless 
Rested The Gleam. 



Clouds and darkness 

Closed upon Camelot ; 

Arthur had vanished 

I knew not whither, 

The king who loved me, 

And cannot die ; 

For out of the darkness 

Silent and slowly 

The Gleam, that had waned to a 

wintry glimmer 
On icy fallow 
And faded forest, 
Drew to the valley 
Named of the shadow, 
And slowly brightening 
Out of the glimmer, 
And slowly moving again to a 

melody 
Yearningly tender, 
Fell on the shadow, 
No longer a shadow, 
But clothed with The Gleam. 



And broader and brighter 

The Gleam flying onward, 

Wed to the melody, 

Sang thro' the world ; 

And slower and fainter, 

Old and weary, 

But eager to follow, 

I saw, whenever 

In passing it glanced upon 

Hamlet or city, 

That under the Crosses 

The dead man's garden, 

The mortal hillock, 

"Would break into blossom 

And so to the land's 

Last limit I came 

And can no longer, 



ROMNEY* S REMORSE. 



681 



But die rejoicing, 

For thro' the Magic 

Of Him the Mighty, 

Who taught me in childhood, 

There on the border 

Of boundless Ocean, 

And all but in Heaven 

Hovers The Gleam. 



Not of the sunlight, 
Not of the moonlight, 
Not of the starlight ! 
O young Mariner, 
Down to the haven, 
Call your companions, 
Launch your vessel, 
And crowd your canvas, 
And, ere it vanishes 
Over the margin, 
After it. follow it, 
Follow The Gleam. 



ROMNEY'S REMORSE. 

*' I read Hayley's Life of Romney the 
other day — Romney wanted but education 
and reading to make him a very fine painter; 
but his ideal was not high nor fixed. How 
touching is the close of his lif ! He married 
at nineteen, and because Sir Joshua and 
others had said that ' marriage spoilt an 
artist' almost immediately left his wife in 
the Xorth aud scarce saw her till the end of 
his life; when old, nearly road and quite 
desolate, he went back to her and she re- 
ceived him and nursed him till he died. 
This quiet act of hers is worth all Romney's 
pictures! even as a matter of Art, T am 
sure." (Letters and Literary Remains of 
Edward Fitzgerald, vol. i.) 

"Beat, little heart — I give you this 

and this " — 
Who are you? What! the Lady 

Hamilton ? 
Good, I am never weary painting you. 
To sit once more ? Cassandra, Hebe, 

Joan, 
Or spinning at your wheel beside the 

vine — 
Bacchante, what you will ; and if I 

fail 
To conjure and concentrate into form 
And color all you are, the fault is less 



In me than Art. What Artist ever 

yet 
Could make pure light live on the 

canvas ? Art ! 
Why should I so disrelish that short 

word? 
Where am 1 ? snow on all the hills ! 

so hot, 
So fever'd! never colt would more 

delight 
To roll himself in meadow grass 

than I 
To wallow in that winter of the hills. 
Nurse, were you hired 1 or came of 

your own will 
To wait on one so broken, so forlorn * 
Have I not met you somewhere long 

ago? 
I am all but sure I have — in Kendal 

church — 

yes ! I hired you for a season 

there, 
And then we parted; but you look so 

kind 
That you will not deny my sultry 

throat 
One draught of icy water. There — 

you spill 
The drops upon my forehead. Your 

hand shakes. 

1 am ashamed. I am a trouble to 

you, 
Could kneel for your forgiveness. 

Are they tears ? 
For me — they do me too much grace 

— for me? 
O Mary, Mary ! 

Vexing you with words ! 
Words only, born of fever, or the 

fumes 
Of that dark opiate dose you gave 

me, — words, 
Wild babble. I have stumbled back 

again 
Into the common day, the sounder 

self. 
God stay me there, if only for your 

sake, 
The truest, kindliest, noblest-hearted 

wife 
That ever wore a Christian marriage- 
ring. 



682 



ROMNEY'S REMORSE. 



My curse upon the Master's apo- 
thegm, 
That wife and children drag an Artist 

down ! 
This seenrd my lodestar in the 

Heaven of Art, 
And lured me from the household 

fire on earth. 
To you my days have been a life-long 

lie, 
Grafted on half a truth, and tho' you 

say 
" Take comfort, you have won the 

Painter's fame ; " 
The best in me that sees the worst in 

me, 
And groans to see it, finds no com- 
fort there. 
What fame ? I am not Raphael, 

Titian — no 
Nor even a Sir Joshua, some will cry. 
Wrong there ! The painter's fame ? 

but mine, that grew 
Blown into glittering by the popular 

breath, 
May float awhile beneath the sun, 

may roll 
The rainbow hues of heaven about 

it — 

There ! 
The color'd bubble bursts above the 

abyss 
Of Darkness, utter Lethe. 

Is it so 1 
Her sad eyes plead for my own fame 

with me 
To make it dearer. 

Look, the sun has risen 
To flame along another dreary day. 
Your hand. How bright you keep 

your marriage-ring ! 
Raise me. I thank you. 

Has your opiate then 
Bred this black mood ? or am I con- 
scious, more 
Than other Masters, of the chasm 

between 
Work and Ideal ? Or does the gloom 
of Age 



And suffering cloud the height I 

stand upon 
Even from myself? stand? stood . . . 

no more. 

And yet 
The world would lose, if such a wife 

as you 
Should vanish unrecorded. Might I 

crave 
One favor? I am bankrupt of all 

claim 
On your obedience, and my strongest 

wish 
Falls flat before your least unwilling- 
ness. 
Still would you — if it please you — 

sit to me ? 
I dream'd last night of that clear 

summer noon, 
When seated on a rock, and foot to 

foot 
With your own shadow in. the placid 

lake, 
You claspt our infant daughter, heart 

to heart. 
I had been among the hills, and 

brought you down 
A length of staghorn-moss, and this 

you twined 
About her cap. I see the picture yet, 
Mother and child. A sound from far 

away, 
No louder than a bee among the 

flowers, 
A fall of water lull'd the noon asleep. 
You still'd it for the moment with a 

song 
Which often echo'd in me, while I 

stood 
Before the great Madonna-master- 
pieces 
Of ancient Art in Paris, or in Rome. 

Mary, my crayons ! if I can, I will. 
You should have been — I might have 

made you once, 
Had I but known you as I know you 

now — 
The true Alcestis of the time. Your 

song — 
Sit, listen ! I remember it, a proof 
That I— even I — at times reinem- 

ber'd you. 



ROMXEY'S REMORSE. 



683 



" Beat upon mine, little heart ! beat, 

beat ! 
Beat upon mine ! you are mine, my 

sweet ! 
All mine from your pretty blue eyes 
to your feet, 

My sweet." 
Less profile! turn to me — three- 
quarter face. 
"Sleep, little blossom, my honey, 

my bliss ! 
For I give you this, and I give you 

this! 
And I blind your pretty blue eyes 
with a kiss ! 

Sleep ! " 
Too early blinded by the kiss of 
death — 
"Father and Mother will watch 
you grow " — 
You watch'd, not I. she did not grow, 
she died. 

" Father and Mother will watch 

you grow, 
And gather the roses whenever 

they blow, 
And find the white heather wherever 



you go, 



My sweet." 



Ah, my white heather only grows in 

heaven 
With Milton's amaranth. There, 

there, there ! a child 
Had shamed me at it — Down, you 

idle tools, 
Stampt into dust — tremulous, all 

awry, 
Blurr'd like a landskip in a ruffled 

pool, — 
Not one stroke firm. This Art, that 

harlot-like 
Seduced me from you, leaves me 

harlot-like, 
Who love her still, and whimper, 

impotent 
To win her back before I die — and 

then — 
Then, in the loud world's bastard 

judgment-day, 



One truth will damn me with the 

mindless mob, 
Who feel no touch of my temptation, 

more 
More than all the myriad lies, that 

blacken round 
The corpse of every man that gains a 

name ; 
" This model husband, this fine Art- 
ist " ! Fool, 
What matters ? Six foo* deep of 

burial mould 
Will dull their comments ! Ay, but 

when the shout 
Of His descending peals from Heaven, 

and throbs 
Thro' earth, and all her graves, if He 

should ask 
" Why left you wife and children ? 

for my sake, 
According to my word ? " and I replied 
" Nay, Lord, for Art," why, that would 

sound so mean 
That all the dead, who wait the doom 

of Hell 
For bolder sins than mine, adulteries, 
Wife-murders, — nay, the ruthless 

Mussulman 
Who flings his bowstrung Harem in 

the sea, 
Would turn, and glare at me, and 

point and jeer, 
And gibber at the worm, who, living, 

made 
The wife of wives a widow-bride, and 

lost 
Salvation for a sketch. 

I am wild again ! 
The coals of fire you heap upon my 

head 
Have crazed me. Someone knocking 

there without 1 
No ! Will my Indian brother come ? 

to find 
Me or my coffin ? Should I know the 

man? 
This worn-out Reason dying in her 

house 
May leave the windows blinded, and 

if so, 
Bid him farewell for me, and tell 

him — 



684 



PARNASSUS. 



Hope! 
I hear a death-bed Angel whisper 

"Hope." 
" The miserable have no medicine 
But only Hope ! " He said it . . . 

in the play. 
His crime was of the senses ; of the 

mind 
Mine ; worse, cold, calculated. 

Tell my son — 
O let me lean my head upon your 

breast. 



" Beat little heart " on this fool brain 
of mine. 

I once had friends — and many — 
none like you. 

I love you more than when we mar- 
ried. Hope ! 

yes, I hope, or fancy that, perhaps, 

Human forgiveness touches heaven, 
and thence — 

For you forgive me, you are sure of 
that — 

Reflected,sends a light on the forgiven. 



PARNASSUS. 

Exegi monumentum . . . 
Quod non . . . 
Possit diruere . . . 

. . . innumerabilis. 
Annorum series et fuga temporum.- 



HOBAGE. 



I. 

What be those crown'd forms high over the sacred fountain ? 

Bards, that the mighty Muses have raised to the heights of the mountain, 

And over the flight of the Ages ! O Goddesses, help me up thither ! 

Lightning may shrivel the laurel of Caesar, but mine would not wither. 

Steep is the mountain, but you, you will help me to overcome it, 

And stand with my head in the zenith, and roll my voice from the summit, 

Sounding forever and ever thro' Earth and her listening nations, 

And mixt with the great Sphere-music of stars and of constellations. 

ii. 

What be those two shapes high over the sacred fountain, 
Taller than all the Muses, and huger than all the mountain 1 
On those two known peaks they stand ever spreading and heightening; 
Poet, that evergreen laurel is blasted by more than lightning ! 
Look, in their deep double shadow the crown'd ones all disappearing ! 
Sing like a bird and be happy, nor hope for a deathless hearing ! 
" Sounding forever and ever ? " pass on ! the sight confuses — 
These are Astronomy and Geology, terrible Muses ! 



If the lips were touched with fire from off a pure Pierian altar, 
Tho' their music here be mortal need the singer greatly care 1 
Other songs for other worlds ! the fire within him would not falter; 
Let the golden Iliad vanish, Homer here is Homer there. 



FAR — FAR — A WA Y. 



685 



BY AN EVOLUTIONIST. 

The Lord let the house of a brute to the soul of a man, 

And the man said " Am I your debtor? " 
And the Lord — "Not yet : but make it as clean as you can, 

And then I will let you a better." 



If my body come from brutes, my soul uncertain, or a fable, 
Why not bask amid the senses while the sun of morning shines, 

I, the finer brute rejoicing in my hounds, and in my stable, 

Youth and Health, and birth and wealth, and choice of women and of wines 1 

ii. 
What hast thou done for me, grim Old Age, save breaking my bones on the 
rack ? 
Would I had past in the morning that looks so bright from afar! 

OLD AGE. 

Done for thee ? starved the wild beast that was linkt with thee eighty years 
back. 
Less weight now for the ladder-of -heaven that hangs on a star. 

i. 
If my body come from brutes, tho' somewhat finer than their own, 

I am heir, and this my kingdom. Shall the royal voice be mute 2 
No, but if the rebel subject seek to drag me from the throne, 

Hold the sceptre, Human Soul, and rule thy Province of the brute. 

ii. 
I have climb'd to the snows of Age, and I gaze at a field in the Past, 

Where I sank with the body at times in the sloughs of a low desire, 
But I hear no yelp of the beast, and the Man is quiet at last 

As he stands on the heights of his life with a glimpse of a height that is 
higher. 



FAR — FAR — AWAY. 

(for music.) 

What sight so lured him thro' the 

fields he knew 
As where earth's green stole into 

heaven's own hue, 

Far — fur — away ? 

What sound was dearest in his native 

dells? 
The mellow lin-lan-lone of evening 

bells 

Far — far — away. 



What vague world-whisper, mystic 

pain or joy, 
Thro' those three words would haunt 

him when a boy 

Far — far — away ? 

A whisper from his dawn of life ? a 

breath 
From some fair dawn beyond the 

doors of death 

Far — far — away ? 

Far, far, how far ? from o'er the 

gates of Birth, 
The faint horizons, all the bounds of 

earth, 

Far — far — away ? 



686 



POLITICS— THE SNOWDROP. 



What charm in words, a charm no 

words could give ? 
O dying words, can Music make you 

live 

Far — far — away ? 



POLITICS. 

We move, the wheel must always 
move, 
Nor always on the plain, 
And if we move to such a goal 

As Wisdom hopes to gain, 
Then you that drive, and know your 
Craft, 
Will firmly hold the rein, 
Nor lend an ear to random cries, 

Or you may drive in vain, 
For some cry " Quick " and some cry 
" Slow," 
But, while the hills remain, 
Up hill "Too-slow" will need the 
whip, 
Down hill " Too-quick " the chain. 



BEAUTIFUL CITY. 

Beautiful city, the centre and crater 
of European confusion, 

O you with your passionate shriek 
for the rights of an equal hu- 
manity, 

How often your Re-volution has 
proven but E-volution 

Roll'd again back on itself in the 
tides of a civic insanity ! 



THE ROSES ON THE TERRACE. 

Rose, on this terrace fifty years ago, 
When I was in my June, you in 
your May, 
Two words, " My Rose " set all your 
face aglow, 
And now that I am white, and you 
are gray, 
That blush of fifty years ago, my 
dear, 
Blooms in the Past, but close to 
me to-day 



As this red rose, which on our terrace 
here 
Glows in the blue of fifty mile? 
away. 

THE PLAY. 

Act first, this Earth, a stage so 
gloom'd with woe 
You all but sicken at the shifting 
scenes. 
And yet be patient. Our Playwright 
may show 
In some fifth Act what this wild 
Drama means. 



ON ONE WHO AFFECTED AN 
EFFEMINATE MANNER. 

While man and woman still are in- 
complete, 

I prize that soul where man and 
woman meet, 

Which types all Nature's male and 
female plan, 

But, friend, man-woman is not 
woman-man. 



TO 



ONE WHO RAN 
THE ENGLISH. 



DOWN 



You make our faults too gross, and 
thence maintain 

Our darker future. May your fears 
be vain ! 

At times the small black fly upon 
the pane 

May seem the black ox of the dis- 
tant plain. 



THE SNOWDROP. 

Many, many welcomes 
February fair-maid, 
Ever as of old time, 
Solitary firstling, 
Coming in the cold time, 
Prophet of the gay time, 
Prophet of the May time, 
Prophet of the roses, 
Many, many welcomes 
February fair-maid ! 



THE THROSTLE— CROSSING THE BAR. 



687 



THE THROSTLE. 

" Summer is coming, summer is 
coming. 
I know it, I know it, T know it. 
Light again, leaf again, life again, 
love again," 
Yes, my wild little Poet. 

Sing the new year in under the blue. 

Last year you sang it as gladly. 
" New, new, new, new ! " Is it then 
so new 

That you should carol so madly 1 

" Love again, song again, nest again, 
young again," 
Never a prophet so crazy ! 
And hardly a daisy as yet, little 
friend, 
See, there is hardly a daisy. 

" Here again, here, here, here, happy 
year ! " 
O warble unchidden, unbidden ! 
Summer is coming, is coming, my 
dear, 
And all the winters are hidden. 



THE OAK. 
Live thy Life, 

Young and old, 
Like yon oak, 
Bright in spring, 

Living gold ; 

Summer-rich 

Then; and then 
Autumn-changed, 
Soberer-hued 

Gold again. 

.'.11 his leaves 

Fall'n at length, 
Look, he stands, 
Trunk and bough, 

Naked strength. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



W. G. WARD. 



Farewell, whose like on earth I 
shall not find, 
Whose Faith and Work were bells 
of full accord, 
My friend, the most unworldly of 
mankind, 
Most generous of all Ultramon- 
tanes, Ward, 
How subtle at tierce and quart of 
mind with mind, 
How loyal in the following of thy 
Lord! 



CROSSING THE BAR. 

Sunset and evening star, 
And one clear call for me ! 

And may there be no moaning of the 
bar, 
When I put out to sea, 



as moving seems 



But such a tide 
asleep, 

.Too full for sound and foam, 
When that which drew from out the 
boundless deep 
Turns again home. 

Twilight and evening bell, 

And after that the dark ! 
And may there be no sadness of fare- 
well, 

When I embark ; 

For tho' from out our bourne of Time 
and Place 

The flood may bear me far, 
I hope to see my Pilot face to face 

When I have crost the bar. 



QUEEN MAET: 

A DRAMA. 

DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
Queen Mart. 

Philip, King of Naples and Sicily, afterwards King of Spain. 
The Princess Elizabeth. 
Reginald Pole, Cardinal and Papal Legate. 
Simon Renard, Spanish Ambassador. 
Le Sieur de Noailles, French Ambassador. 
Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury. 

Sir Nicholas Heath, Archbishop of York; Lord Chancellor after Gardiner. 
Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon. 

Lord William Howard, afterwards Lord Howard, and Lord High Admiral 
Lord Williams of Thame. Lord Paget. Lord Petre. 

Stephen Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester and Lord Chancellor. 
Edmund Bonner, Bishop of London. Thomas Thirlby, Bishop of Ely. 

Sir Thomas Wyatt \ Insurrectionary Leaders . 
Sir Thomas Stafford ) y 

Sir Ralph Bagenhall. Sir Robert Southwell. 

Sir Henry Bedingfield. Sir William Cecil. 

Sir Thomas White, Lord Mayor of London. 
The Duke of Alva ( .. ■,. mr 

The Count de Feria \^^ngon Phuip. 
Peter Martyr. Father Cole. Father Bourne. 

Villa Garcia. Soto. 

Captain Brett ) Adherents of Wy att. 

Anthony Knyvett ) J a 

Peters, Gentleman of Lord Howard. 

Roger, Servant to Noailles. William, Servant to Wyatt. 

Steward of Household to the Princess Elizabeth. 
Old Nokes and Nokes. 

Marchioness of Exeter, Mother of Courtenay. 
Lady Clarence ) T ,. . lir ... . ., ~ 

Lady Magdalen Dacres f Ladies in Wmtm 9 t0 the ® ueen - 
Alice. 
Maid of Honor to the Princess Elizabeth. 

f p > two Country Wives. 

Lords and other Attendants, Members of the Privy Council, Members oj 
Parliament, Two Gentlemen, Aldermen, Citizens, Peasants, Ushers, 
Messengers, Guards, Pages, Gospellers, Marshalmen, etc. 



QUEEN MARY. 



689 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. — Aldgate richly 

decorated 

Crowd. Marshalmen. 

Marshalman. Stand back, keep a 
clear lane ! When will her Majesty 
pass, sayst thou ? why now, even 
now; wherefore draw back your 
heads and your horns before I break 
them, and make what noise you will 
with your tongues, so it be not trea- 
son. Long live Queen Mary, the law- 
ful and legitimate daughter of Harry 
the Eighth ! Shout, knaves ! 

Citizens. Long live Queen Mary ! 

First Citizen. That's a hard word, 
legitimate; what does it mean? 

Second Citizen. It means a bastard. 

Third Citizen. Nay, it means true- 
born. 

First Citizen. Why, didn't the Par- 
liament make her a bastard? 

Second Citizen. No ; it was the Lady 
Elizabeth. 

Third Citizen. That was after, man ; 
that was after. 

First Citizen. Then which is the 
bastard ? 

Second Citizen. Troth, they be both 
bastards by Act of Parliament and 
Council. 

Third Citizen. Ay, the Parliament 
can make every true-born man of us 
n bastard. Old Nokes, can't it make 
thee a bastard 1 thou shouldst know, 
tor thou art as white as three Christ- 
masses. 

Old Nokes (dreamily). Who's a-pass- 
ing ? King Edward or King Richard 1 

Third Citizen. No, old Nokes. 

Old Nokes. It's Harry ! 

Third Citizen. It's Queen Mary. 

Old Nokes. The blessed Mary's a- 



passing 



( Falls on his knees. 



Nokes. Let father alone, my mas- 
ters ! he's past your questioning. 

Third Citizen. Answer thou for 
liim, then ! thou'rt no such cockerel 



thyself, for thou was born i' the tail 
end of old Harry the Seventh. 

Nokes. Eh ! that was afore bastard- 
making began. I was born true man 
at five in the forenoon i' the tail of 
old Harry, and so they can't make 
me a bastard. 

Third Citizen. But if Parliament 
can make the Queen a bastard, why, 
it follows all the more that they can 
make thee one, who art fray'd i' the 
knees, and out at the elbow, and bald 
o' the back, and bursten at the toes, 
and down at heels. 

Nokes. I was born of a true man 
and a ring'd wife, and I can't argue 
upon it ; but I and my old woman 'ud 
burn upon it, that would we. 

^Farshalman. What are you cack- 
ling of bastardy under the Queen's 
own nose ? I'll have you flogg'd and 
burnt too, by the Rood I will. 

First Citizen. He swears by the 
Rood. Whew ! 

Second Citizen. Hark! the trumpets. 
[The Procession passes, Mary and 
Elizabeth riding side by side, and 
disappears under the gate. 

Citizens. Long live Queen Mary ! 

down with all traitors ! God save her 

Grace ; and death to Northumberland ! 

[Exeunt. 

Manent Two Gentlemen. 

First Gentleman. By God's light a 
noble creature, right royal ! 

Second Gentleman. She looks come- 
lier than ordinary to-day; but to my 
mind the Lady Elizabeth is the more 
noble and royal. 

First Gentleman. I mean the Lady 
Elizabeth. Did you hear (I have a 
daughter in her service who reported 
it) that she met the Queen at Wan- 
stead with five hundred horse, and the 
Queen (tho' some say they be much 
divided) took her hand, call'd her 
sweet sister, and kiss'd not her alone, 
but all the ladies of her following. 

Second Gentleman. Ay, that was in 



690 



QUEEN MARY. 



her hour of joy ; there will be plenty 
to sunder and unsister them again : 
this Gardiner for one, who is to be 
made Lord Chancellor, and will 
pounce like a wild beast out of his 
cage to worry Cranmer. 

First Gentleman. And furthermore, 
my daughter said that when there rose 
a talk of the late rebellion, she spoke 
even of Northumberland pitifully, and 
of the good Lady Jane as a poor inno- 
cent child who had but obeyed her 
father ; and furthermore, she said that 
no one in her time should be burnt 
for heresy. 

Second Gentleman. Well, sir, I look 
for happy times. 

First Gentleman. There is but one 
thing against them. I know not if 
you know. 

Second Gentleman. I suppose you 
touch upon the rumor that Charles, 
the master of the world, has offer'd 
her his son Philip, the Pope and the 
Devil. I trust it is but a rumor. 

First Gentleman. She is going now 
to the Tower to loose the prisoners 
there, and among them Courtenay, to 
be made Earl of Devon, of royal 
blood, of splendid feature, whom the 
council and all her people wish her to 
marry. May it be so, for we are many 
of us Catholics, but few Papists, and 
the Hot Gospellers will go mad upon 
it. 

Second Gentleman. Was she not 
betroth'd in her babyhood to the 
Great Emperor himself ? 

First Gentleman. Ay, but he's too 
old. 

Second Gentleman. And again to her 
cousin Reginald Pole, now Cardinal ; 
but I hear that he too is full of aches 
and broken before his day. 

First Gentleman. O, the Pope could 
dispense with his Cardinalate, and his 
achage, and his breakage, if that were 
all : will you not follow the proces- 
sion ? 

Second Gentleman. No ; I have seen 
enough for this day. 

.First Gentleman. Well, I shall fol- 



low ; if I can get near enough I shall 
judge with my own eyes whether her 
Grace incline to this splendid scion of 
Plantagenet. [Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 
A Room in Lambeth Palace. 

Cranmer. To Strasburg, Antwerp, 

Erankfort, Zurich, Worms, 
Geneva, Basle — our Bishops from 

their sees 
Or fled, they say, or flying — Poinet, 

Barlow, 
Bale, Scory, Coverdale ; besides the 

Deans 
Of Christchurch, Durham, Exeter, and 

Wells — 
Ailmer and Bullingham, and hundreds 

more ; 
So they report : I shall be left alone. 
No : Hooper, Ridley, Latimer will not 

fly- 

Enter Peter Martyr. 

Peter Martyr. Fly, Cranmer ! were 
there nothing else, your name 

Stands first of those who sign'd the 
Letters Patent 

That gave her royal crown to Lady 
Jane. 
Cranmer. Stand first it may, but it 
was written last : 

Those that are now her Privy Council, 
sign'd 

Before me : nay, the Judges had pro- 
nounced 

That our young Edward might be- 
queath the crown 

Of England, putting by his father's 
will. 

Yet I stood out, till Edward sent for 
me. 

The wan boy-king, with his fast-fading 
eyes 

Fixt hard on mine, his frail transpar- 
ent hand, 

Damp with the sweat of death, and 
griping mine, 

Whisper'd me, if I loved him, not to 
yield 



QUEEN MARY. 



691 



His Church of England to the Papal 
wolf 

And Mary ; then I could no more — 

I sign'd. 
Nay, for bare shame of inconsis- 
tency, 
She cannot pass her traitor council by, 
To make me headless. 

Peter Martyr. That might be for- 
given. 
I tell you, fly, my Lord. You do not 

own 
The bodily presence in the Eucharist, 
Their wafer and perpetual sacrifice : 
Your creed will be your death. 

Cranmer. Step after step, 

Thro' many voices crying right and 

left,' 
Have I climb'd back into the primal 

church, 
And stand within the porch, and 

Christ with me : 
My flight were such a scandal to the 

faith, 
The downfall of so many simple souls, 
I dare not leave my post. 

Peter Martyr. But you divorced 
Queen Catharine and her father; 

hence, her hate 
Will burn till you are burn'd. 

Cranmer. I cannot help it. 

The Canonists and Schoolmen were 

with me. 
" Thou shalt not wed thy brother's 

wife." — 'Tis written, 
"They shall be childless." True, 

Mary was born, 
But France would not accept her for 

a bride 
As being born from incest; and this 

wrought 
Upon the king; and child by child, 

you know, 
Were momentary sparkles out as 

quick 
Almost as kindled ; and he brought 

his doubts 
x\nd fears to me. Peter, HI swear 

for him 
He did believe the bond incestuous. 
But wherefore am I trenching on the 

time 



That should already have seen your 

steps a mile 
From me and Lambeth ? God be 

with you ! Go. 
Peter Martyr. Ah, but how fierce a 

letter you wrote against 
Their superstition when they slander'd 

you 
For setting up a mass at Canterbury 
To please the Queen. 

Cranmer. It was a wheedling monk 
Set up the mass. 

Peter Martyr. I know it, my good 

Lord. 
But you so bubbled over with hot 

terms 
Of Satan, liars, blasphemy, Anti- 
christ, 
She never will forgive you. Fly, my 

Lord, fly ! 
Cranmer. I wrote it, and God grant 

me power to burn ! 
Ptter Martyr. They have given me 

a safe conduct : for all that 
I dare not stay. I fear, I fear, I see 

you, 

Dear friend, for the last time ; fare- 
well, and fly. 
Cranmer. Fly and farewell, and let 
me die the death. 

[Exit Peter Martyr. 

Enter Old Servant. 

O, kind and gentle master, the Queen's 

Officers 
Are here in force to take you to the 
Tower. 
Cranmer. Ay, gentle friend, admit 
them. I will go. 
I thank my God it is too late to fly. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE III. — St. Paul's Cross. 

Father Bourne in the pulpit. A 
crowd. Marchioness of Exeter, 
Courtenay. The Sieur de 
Noailles and his man Roger in 
front of the stage. Hubbub. 

Noailles. Hast thou let fall those 
papers in the palace ? 



692 



QUEEN MARY. 



Roger. Ay, sir. 

Noailles. "There will be no peace 
for Mary till Elizabeth lose her head." 

Roger, Ay, sir. 

Noailles. And the other, " Long live 
Elizabeth the Queen ! " 

Roger. Ay, sir ; she needs must 
tread upon them. 

Noailles. Well. 

These beastly swine make such a 

grunting here, 
I cannot catch what Father Bourne is 
saying. 

Roger. Quiet a moment, my mas- 
ters ; hear what the shaveling has to 
say for himself. 

Crowd. Hush — hear ! 

Bourne. — and so this unhappy 
land, long divided in itself, and sevei-'d 
from the faith, will return into the one 
true fold, seeing that our gracious 
Virgin Queen hath 

Croivd. No pope ! no pope ! 

Roger (to those about him, mimicking 
Bourne). — hath sent for the holy 
legate of the holy father the Pope, 
Cardinal Pole, to give us all that holy 
absolution which 

First Citizen. Old Bourne to the 
life ! 

Second Citizen. Holy absolution ! 
holy Inquisition ! 

Third Citizen. Down with the 
Papist ! 

[Hubbub. 

Bourne. — and now that your good 
bishop, Bonner, who hath lain so long 
under bonds for the faith — [Hubbub. 

Noailles. Friend Roger, steal thou 
in among the crowd, 
And get the swine to shout Elizabeth. 
Yon gray old Gospeller, sour as mid 

winter, 
Begin with him. 

Roger (goes). By the mass, old 
friend, we'll have no pope here while 
the Lady Elizabeth lives. 

Gospeller. Art thou of the true faith, 
fellow, that swearest by the mass 7 

Roger. Ay, that am I, new con- 
verted, but the old leaven sticks to my 
tongue yet. 



First Citizen. He says right; by 
the mass we'll have no mass here. 

Voices of the crowd. Peace ! hear 
him ; let his own words damn the 
Papist. From thine own mouth I 
judge thee — tear him down ! 

Bourne. — and since our Gracious 
Queen, let me call her our second 
Virgin Mary, hath begun to re-edify 

the true temple 

First Citizen. Virgin Mary ! we'll 
have no virgins here — we'll have the 
Lady Elizabeth! 

[Sivords are drawn, a knife is 
hurled and sticks in the pulpit. 
The mob throng to the pulpit 
stairs. 
Marchioness of Exeter. Son Courte- 
nay, wilt thou see the holy 
father 
Murdered before thy face 1 up, son, 

and save him ! 
They love thee, and thou canst not 
come to harm. 
Courtenay (in the pulpit). Shame, 
shame, my masters ! are you 
English-born, 
And set yourselves by hundreds 
against one 1 
Crowd. A Courtenay! a Courtenay ! 
[A train of Spanish servants crosses 
at the back of the stage. 
Noailles. These birds of passage 
come before their time : 
Stave off the crowd upon the Spaniard 
there. 
Roger. My masters, yonder's fatter 
game for you 
Than this old gaping gurgoyle : look 

you there — 
The prince of Spain coming to wed 

our Queen ! 
After him, boys ! and pelt him from 
the city. 
[They seize stones and follow the 
Spaniards. Exeunt on the other 
side Marchioness of Exeter and 
Attendants. 
Noailles (to Roger). Stand from 
me. If Elizabeth lose her 
head — 
That makes for France. 



QUEEN MARY. 



693 



And if her people, anger'd thereupon, 
Arise against her and dethrone the 

Queen — 
That makes for France. 
And if I breed confusion anyway — 
That makes for France. 

Good-day, nn Lord of Devon ; 
A bold heart yours to beard that rag- 
ing mob ! 
Court* nay. My mother said, Go up ; 
and up 1 went. 
I knew they would not do me any 

wrong. 
For I am mighty popular with them, 
Noailles. 
Noailles. You look'd a king. 
Courtenay. "Why not? lam 

king's blood. 
Noailles. And in the whirl of change 

may come to be one. 
Courtenay. Ah! 
Noailles. But does your gracious 

Queen entreat you kinglikc I 
Courtenay. 'Fore God, I think she 

entreats me like a child. 
Noailles. You've but a dull life in 
this maiden court, 
I fear, my Lord ? 

Courtenay. A life of nods and yawns. 
Noailles. So you would honor my 
poor house to-night, 
We might enliven you. Divers honest 

fellows, 
The Duke of Suffolk lately freed from 

prison, 
Sir Peter Carew and Sir Thomas 

Wyatt, 
Sir Thomas Stafford, and some more 
— we play. 
Courtenay. At what? 
Noailles. The Game of Chess. 

Courtenay. The Game of Chess ! 
I can play well, and I shall beat you 
there. 
Noailles. Ay, but we play with 
Henry, King of France, 
And certain of his court. 
His Highness makes his moves across 

the Channel, 
We answer him with ours, and there 

are messengers 
That go between us. 



Courtenay. Why, such a game, sir 

were whole years a playing. 
Noailles. Nay; not so long I trust 
That all depends 
Upon the skill and swiftness of the 
players. 
Courtenay. The King is skilful at it? 
Noailles, Very, my Lord. 

Courtenay. And the stakes high ? 
Noailles. But not beyond your 

means. 
Courtenay. Well, I'm the first of 

players. I shall win. 
Noailles. With our advice and in 
our company, 
And so you well attend to the king's 

moves, 
I think you may. 

Courtenay. When do you meet ? 

Noailles. To-night. 

Courtenay (aside). I will be there; 

the fellow's at his tricks — 

Deep — I shall fathom him. ( Aloud. ) 

Good morning, Noailles. 

[Exit Courtenay. 

Noailles. Good-day, my Lord. 

Strange game of chess ! a King 

That with her own pawns plays against 

a Queen, 
Whose play is all to find herself a 

King. 
Ay ; but this fine blue-blooded Courte- 
nay seems 
Too princely for a pawn. Call him a 

Knight, 
That, with an ass's, not a horse's head, 
Skips every way, from levity or from 

fear. 
Well, we shall use him somehow, so 

that Gardiner 
And Simon Renard spy not out our 

game 
Too early. Roger, thinkest thou that 

anyone 
Suspected thee to be my man ? 

Roger. Not one, sir. 

Noailles. No ! the disguise was per- 
fect. Let's away. {Exeunt 



694 



QUEEN MARY. 



SCENE IV. 

London. A Koom in the Palace. 

Elizabeth. Enter Courtenay. 

Courtenay. So yet am I, 
Unless my friends and mirrors lie to 

me, 
A goodlier-looking fellow than this 

Philip. 
Pah! 
The Queen is ill advised : shall I turn 

traitor ? 
They've almost talked me into it : yet 

the word 
Affrights me somewhat : to be such a 

one 
As Harry Bolingbroke hath a lure in 

it. 
Good now, my Lady Queen, tho' by 

your age, 
And by your looks you are not worth 

the having, 
Yet by your crown you are. 

[Seeing Elizabeth. 
The Princess there 1 
If I tried her and la — she's amor- 
ous. 
Have we not heard of her in Edward's 

time, 
Her freaks and frolics with the late 

Lord Admiral ? 
I do believe she'd yield. I should be 

still 
A party in the state ; and then, who 
knows — 
Elizabeth. What are you musing on, 

my Lord of Devon ? 
Courtenay. Has not the Queen — 
Elizabeth. Done what, Sir ? 

Courtenay. — made you follow 

The Lady Suffolk and the Lady Len- 
nox 1 ? — 
You, 
The heir presumptive. 

Elizabeth. Why do you ask ? you 

know it. 
Courtenay. You needs must bear it 

hardly. 
Elizabeth. No, indeed ! 

I am utterly submissive to the Queen. 



Courtenay. Well, I was musing up- 
on that ; the Queen 
Is both my foe and yours . we should 
be friends. 
Elizabeth. My Lord, the hatred of 
another to us 
Is no true bond of friendship. 

Courtenay. Might it not 

Be the rough preface of some closer 

bond? 

Elizabeth. My Lord, you late were 

loosed from out the Tower, 

Where, like a butterfly in a chrysalis, 

You spent your life ; that broken, out 

you nutter 
Thro' the new world, go zigzag, now 

would settle 
Upon this flower, now that ; but all 

things here 
At court are known ; you have solicited 
The Queen, and been rejected. 

Courtenay. Flower, she ! 

Half faded ! but you, cousin, are fresh 

and sweet 
As the first flower no bee has ever 
tried. 
Elizabeth. Are you the bee to try 
me 1 why, but now 
I called you butterfly. 

Courtenay. You did me wrong, 

I love not to be called a butterfly : 
Why do you call me butterfly 1 
Elizabeth. Why do you go so gay 

then ? 
Courtenay. Velvet and gold. 

This dress was made me as the Earl 

of Devon 
To take my seat in ; looks it not right 
royal % 
Elizabeth. So royal that the Queen 

forbad you wearing it. 
Courtenay. I wear it then to spite 

her. 
Elizabeth. My Lord, my Lord ; 

I see you in the Tower again. Her 

Majesty 
Hears you affect the Prince — prelates 
kneel to you. — 
Courtenay. I am the noblest blood 
in Europe, Madam, 
A Courtenay of Devon, and her 
cousin. 



QUEEN MARY. 



695 



Elizabeth. She hears you make 
your boast that after all 
She means to wed you. Folly, my 
good Lord. 
Oourtenay. How folly ? a great 
party in the state 
Wills me to wed her. 

Elizabeth. Failing her, my Lord, 
Doth not as great a party in the 

state 
Will you to wed me ? 

Oourtenay. Even so, fair lady. 

Elizabeth. You know to natter 

ladies. 
Oourtenay. Nay, I meant 

True matters of the heart. 

Elizabeth. My heart, my Lord, 

Is no great party in the state as yet. 
Courtenay. Great, said you ? nay, 
you shall be great. I love you, 
Lay my life in your hands. Can you 
be close ? 
Elizabeth. Can you, my Lord ? 
Courtenay. Close as a miser's casket. 
Listen : 
The King of France, Noailles the 

Ambassador, 
The Duke of Suffolk and Sir Peter 

Carew, 
Sir Thomas Wyatt, I myself, some 

others, 
Have sworn this Spanish marriage 

shall not be. 
If Mary will not hear us — well — 

conjecture — 
Were I in Devon with my wedded 

bride, 
The people there so worship me — 

Your ear ; 
You shall be Queen. 

Elizabeth. You speak too low, 

my Lord ; 
I cannot hear you. 

Courtenay. I'll repeat it. 

Elizabeth. No ! 

Stand further off, or you may lose 
your head. 
Courtenay. I have a head to lose 

for your sweet sake. 
Elizabeth. Have you, my Lord 1 
Best keep it for your own. 
Nay, pout not, cousin. 



Not many friends are mine, except 
indeed 

Among the many. I believe you 
mine ; 

And so you may continue mine, fare- 
well, 

And that at once. 

Enter Mary, behind. 

Mary. Whispering — leagued to- 
gether 
To bar me from my Philip. 

Courtenay. Pray — consider — 

Elizabeth {seeing the Queen). Well, 

that's a noble horse of yours, 

my Lord. 

I trust that he will carry you well 

to-day, 
And heal your headache. 

Courtenay. You are wild; what 
headache ? 
Heartache, perchance ; not headache. 
Elizabeth {aside to Courtenay.) Are 

you blind ? 
[Courtenay sees the Queen and exit. 
Exit Mary. 

Enter Lord William Howard. 

Howard. Was that my Lord of 

Devon 1 do not you 
Be seen in corners with my Lord of 

Devon. 
He hath fallen out of favor with the 

Queen. 
She fears the Lords may side with 

you and him 
Against her marriage ; therefore is he 

dangerous. 
And if this Prince of fluff and feather 

come 
To woo you, niece, he is dangerous 

everyway. 
Elizabeth. Not very dangerous that 

way, my good uncle. 
Howard. But your own state is full 

of danger here. 
The disaffected, heretics, reformers, 
Look to you as the one to crown their 

ends. 
Mix not yourself with any plot I pray 

you; 



696 



QUEEN MARY. 



Nay, if by chance you hear of any such, 
Speak not thereof — no, not to your 

best friend, 
Lest you should be confounded with 

it. Still — 
Perinde ac cadaver — as the priest 

says, 
You know your Latin — quiet as a 

dead body. 
What was my Lord of Devon telling 

you? 
Elizabeth. Whether he told me any- 
thing or not, 
I follow your good counsel, gracious 

uncle. 
Quiet as a dead body. 

Howard. You do right well. 

1 do not care to know; but this I 

charge you, 
Tell Courtenay nothing. The Lord 

Chancellor 
(I count it as a kind of virtue in him, 
He hath not many), as a mastiff dog 
May love a puppy cur for no more 

reason 
Than that the twain have been tied 

up together, 
Thus Gardiner — for the two were 

fellow-prisoners 
So many years in yon accursed 

Tower — 
Hath taken to this Courtenay. Look 

to it, niece, 
He hath no fence when Gardiner 

questions him ; 
All oozes out ; yet him — because 

they know him 
The last White Rose, the last Plan- 

tagenet 
(Nay, there is Cardinal Pole, too), the 

people 
Claim as their natural leader — ay, 

some say, 
That you shall marry him, make him 

King belike. 
Elizabeth. Do they say so, good 

uncle 1 
Howard. Ay, good niece ! 

You should be plain and open with 

me, niece. 
You should not play upon me. 
Elizabeth, No, good uncle. 



Enter Gardiner. 

Gardiner. The Queen would see 

your Grace upon the moment. 
Elizabeth. Why, my lord Bishop ? 
Gardiner. I think she means to 
counsel your withdrawing 
To Ashridge, or some other country 
house. 
Elizabeth. Why, my lord Bishop ? 
Gardiner. I do but bring the mes- 
sage, know no more. 
Your Grace will hear her reasons 
from herself. 
Elizabeth. 'Tis mine own wish ful- 
fill'd before the word 
Was spoken, for in truth I had meant 

to crave 
Permission of her Highness to retire 
To Ashridge, and pursue my studies 
there. 
Gardiner. Madam, to have the wish 
before the word 
Is man's good Fairy — and the Queen 

is yours. 
I left her with rich jewels in her hand, 
Whereof 'tis like enough she means 

to make 
A farewell present to your Grace. 

Elizabeth. My Lord, 

I have the jewel of a loyal heart. 

Gardiner. I doubt it not, Madam, 

most loyal. [Bows low and exit. 

Howard. See, 

This comes of parleying with my Lord 

of Devon. 
Well, well, you must obey ; and I my- 
self 
Believe it will be better for your wel- 
fare. 
Your time will come. 

Elizabeth. I think my time will 
come. 
Uncle, 

I am of sovereign nature, that I know, 
Not to be quell'd; and I have felt 

within me 
Stirrings of some great doom when 

God's just hour 
Peals — but this fierce old Gardiner 

— his big baldness, 
That irritable forelock which he rubs, 



QUEEN MARY. 



697 



His buzzard beak and deep-incavern'd 

iyes 
Half fright me. 

Howard. You've a bold heart ; keep 

it so. 
He cannot touch you save that you 

turn traitor; 
And so take heed I pray you — you 

are one 
Who love that men should smile up- 
on you, niece. 
They'd smile you into treason — some 

of them. 
Elizabeth. I spy the rock beneath 

the smiling sea. 
But if this Philip, the proud Catholic 

prince. 
And this bald priest, and she that 

hates me, seek 
In that lone house, to practise on my 

life, 
By poison, fire, shot, stab — 

Howard. They will not, niece. 

Mine is the fleet and all the power at 

sea — 
( )r will be in a moment. If they dared 
To harm you, I would blow this Philip 

and all 
Your trouble to the dogstar and the 

devil. 
Elizabeth. To the Pleiads, uncle; 

they have lost a sister. 
Howard. But why say that 1 what 

have you done to lose her ? 
Come, come, 1 will go with you to the 

Queen. [Exeunt. 



SCENE V. 

A Room ix the Palace. 

Mary with Philip's miniature. Alice. 

Mary (kissing the miniature). Most 
goodly, Kinglike and an Em- 
peror's son, — 
A king to be, — is he not noble, girl ? 
Alice. Goodly enough, your Grace, 
and yet, metliinks, 
I have Mt n goodlier. 
Mary. Ay ; some waxen doll 



Thy baby eyes have rested on, belike ; 
All red and white, the fashion of our 

land. 
But my good mother came (God rest 

her soul) 
Of Spain, and I am Spanish in myself, 
And in my likings. 

Alice. By your Grace's leave 

Your royal mother came of Spain, 

but took 
To the English red and white. Your 

royal father 
(For so they say) was all pure lily and 

rose 
In his youth, and like a lady. 

Mary. O, just God ! 

Sweet mother, you had time and cause 

enough 
To sicken of his lilies and his roses. 
Cast off, betray'd, defamed, divorced, 

forlorn ! 
And then the King — that traitor past 

forgiveness, 
The false archbishop fawning on him, 

married 
The mother of Elizabeth — a heretic 
Ev'n as she is ; but God hath sent me 

here 
To take such order with all heretics 
That it shall be, before I die, as tho' 
My father and my brother had not 

lived. 
What wast thou saying of this Lady 

Jane 
Now in the Tower q . 

Alice. Why, Madam, she was pass- 
ing 
Some chapel down in Essex, and with 

her 
Lady Anne Wharton, and the Lady 

Anne 
Bow'd to the Pyx; but Lady Jane 

stood up 
Stiff as the very backbone of heresy. 
And wherefore bow ye not, says Lady 

Anne, 
To him within there who made Heav- 
en and Earth ? 
I cannot, and I dare not, tell your 

Grace 
What Lady Jane replied. 

Mary. But 1 will have it 



698 



QUEEN MARY. 



Alice. She said — pray pardon me, 

and pity her — 
She hath hearken'd evil counsel — ah ! 

she said, 
The baker made him. 

Mary. Monstrous ! blasphemous ! 
She ought to burn. Hence, thou (Exit 

Alice). No — being traitor 
Her head will fall : shall it ? she is 

but a child. 
We do not kill the child for doing that 
His father whipt him into doing — a 

head 
So full of grace and beauty! would 

that mine 
Were half as gracious ! 0, my lord 

to be, 
My love, for thy sake only. 
I am eleven years older than he is. 
But will he care for that ? 
No, by the holy Virgin, being noble, 
But love me only : then the bastard 

sprout, 
My sister, is far fairer than myself. 
Will he be drawn to her ? 
No, being of the true faith with myself. 
Paget is for him — for to wed with 

Spain 
Would treble England — Gardiner is 

against him ; 
The Council, people, Parliament 

against him ; 
But I will have him ! My hard fa- 
ther hated me ; 
My brother rather hated me than 

loved ; 
My sister cowers and hates me. Holy 

Virgin, 
Plead with thy blessed Son; grant 

me my prayer : 
Give me my Philip ; and we two will 

lead 
The living waters of the Faith again 
Back thro' their widow'd channel 

here, and watch 
The parch'd banks rolling incense, as 

of old,. 
To heaven, and kindled with the 

palms of Christ ! 

Enter Usher. 
Who waits, sir ? 



Usher. Madam, the Lord Chan- 
cellor. 
Mary. Bid him come in. {Enter 
Gardiner.) Good morning, 
my good Lord. [Exit Usher. 
Gardiner. That every morning of 
your Majesty 

May be most good, is every morning's 
prayer 

Of your most loyal subject, Stephen 
Gardiner. 
Mary. Come you to tell me this, 

my Lord ? 
Gardiner. And more. 

Your people have begun to learn your 
worth. 

Your pious wish to pay King Ed- 
ward's debts, 

Your lavish household curb'd, and the 
remission 

Of half that subsidy levied on the 
people, 

Make all tongues praise and all hearts 
beat for you. 

I'd have you yet more loved : the 
realm is poor, 

The exchequer at neap-tide : we might 
withdraw 

Part of our garrison at Calais. 

Mary. Calais ! 

Our one point on the main, the gate 
of France ! 

I am Queen of England ; take mine 
eyes, mine heart, 

But do not lose me Calais. 

Gardiner. Do not fear it. 

Of that hereafter. I say your Grace 
is loved. 

That I may keep you thus, who am 
your friend 

And ever faithful counsellor, might I 
speak ? 
Mary. I can forespeak your speak- 
ing. Would I marry 

Prince Philip, if all England hate 
him ? That is 

Your question, and I front it with an- 
other : 

Is it England, or a party 1 Now, your 
answer. 
Gardiner. My answer is, I wear be- 
neath my dress 



QUEEN MARY. 



699 



A shirt of mail : my house hath been 

assaulted, 
Ami when 1 walk abroad, the popu- 
lace, 
With fingers pointed like so many 

daggers, 
Stab me in fancy, hissing Spain and 

Philip; 
And when I sleep, a hundred men-at- 
arms 
Guard my poor dreams for England. 

Men would murder me, 
Because they think me favorer of this 

marriage. 
Mary. And that were hard upon 

you, my Lord Chancellor. 
Gardiner. But our young Earl of 

Devon — 
Mary. Earl of Devon ? 

I freed him from the Tower, placed 

him at Court ; 
1 made him Earl of Devon, and — the 

fool — 
He wrecks his health and wealth on 

courtesans, 
And rolls himself in carrion like a 

clog. 
Gardiner. More like a school-boy 

that hath broken bounds, 
Sickening himself with sweets. 

Mary. I will not hear of him. 

Good, then, they will revolt : but I am 

Tudor, 
And shall control them. 

Gardiner. I will help you, Madam, 
Even to the utmost. All the church 

is grateful. 
You have ousted the mock priest, re- 

pulpited 
The shepherd of St. Peter, raised the 

rood again, 
And brought us back the mass. I am 

all thanks 
To God and to your Grace : yet I 

know well, 
Your people, and I go with them so 

far, 
Will brook nor Tope nor Spaniard 

here to play 
The tyrant, or in commonwealth or 

church. 



Mary {showing the picture). Is this 
the face of one who plays the 
tyrant ? 
Peruse it ; is it not goodly, ay, and 
gentle ? 
Gardiner. Madam, methinks a cold 
face and a haughty. 
And when your Highness talks of 

Courtenay — 
Ay, true — a goodly one. I would 

his life 
Were half as goodly (aside). 

Mary. What is that you mutter 1 
Gardiner. Oh, Madam, take it 
bluntly ; marry Philip, 
And be stepmother of a score of 

sons ! 
The prince is known in Spain, in 

Flanders, ha ! 
For Philip — 

Mary. You offend us; you may 
leave us. 
You see thro' warping glasses. 

Gardiner. If your Majesty — 

Mary. I have sworn upon the body 
and blood of Christ 
I'll none but Philip. 

Gardiner. Hath your Grace so 

sworn ? 
Mary. Ay, Simon Renard knows it. 
Gardiner. News to me ! 

It then remains for your poor Gardi- 
ner, 
So you still care to trust him some- 
what less 
Than Simon Renard, to compose the 

event 
In some such form as least may harm 
your Grace. 
Mary. I'll have the scandal sounded 
to the mud. 
I know it a scandal. 

Gardiner. All my hope is now 

It may be found a scandal. 

Mary. You offend us. 

Gardiner (aside). These princes are 
like children, must be phys- 
icked, 
The bitter in the sweet. I have lost 

mine office, 
Jt may be, thro' mine honesty, like a 
fool. [Exit. 



700 



QUEEN MARY. 



Enter Usher. 

Who waits 1 
Usher. The Ambassador from 

France, your Grace. 
Mary (sits down). Bid him come in. 
Good morning, Sir de Noailles. 
[Exit Usher. 
Noailles (entering). A happy morn- 
ing to your Majesty. 
Mary. And I should some time have 
a happy morning ; 
I have had none yet. What says the 
King your Master ? 
Noailles. Madam, my master hears 
with much alarm, 
That you may marry Philip, Prince of 

Spain — 
Foreseeing, with whate'er unwilling- 
ness, 
That if this Philip be the titular king 
Of England, and at war with him, 

your Grace 
And kingdom will be suck'd into the 

war, 
Ay, tho' you long for peace ; where- 
fore, my master, 
If but to prove your Majesty's good- 
will, 
Would fain have some fresh treaty 
drawn between you. 
Mary. Why some fresh treaty '? 
wherefore should I do it ? 
Sir,, if we marry, we shall still main- 
tain 
All former treaties with his Majesty. 
Our royal word for that! and your 

good master, 
Pray God he do not be the first to 

break them, 
Must be content with that ; and so, 
farewell. 
Noailles (going, returns). I would 
your answer had been other, 
Madam, 
For I foresee dark days. 

Mary. And so do I, sir ; 

Your master works against me in the 

dark. 
I do believe he holp Northumberland 
Against me. 



Noailles. Nay, pure phantasy, your 

Grace. 
Why should he move against you 1 

Mary. Will you hear why ? 

Mary of Scotland, — for I have not 

own'd 
My sister, and I will not, — after 

me 
Is heir of England; and my royal 

father, 
To make the crown of Scotland one 

with ours, 
Had mark'd her for my brother Ed- 
ward's bride ; 
Ay, but your king stole her a babe 

from Scotland 
In order to betroth her to your Dau- 
phin. 
See then : 
Mary of Scotland, married to your 

Dauphin, 
Would make our England, France : 
Mary of England, joining hands with 

Spain, 
Would be too strong for France. 
Yea, were there issue born to her, 

Spain and we, 
One crown, might rule the world. 

There lies your fear. 
That is your drift. You play at hide 

and seek. 
Show me your faces ! 

Noailles. Madam, I am amazed : 
French, I must needs wish all good 

things for France. 
That must be pardon'd me; but I pro- 
test 
Your Grace's policy hath a farther 

flight 
Than mine into the future. We bu t 

seek 
Some settled ground for peace to stand 

upon. 
Mary. Well, we will leave all this.. 

sir, to our council. 
Have you seen Philip ever 1 

Noailles. Only once. 

Mary. Is this like Philip ? 
Noailles. Ay, but nobler-looking. 
Mary. Hath he the large ability of 

Emperor ? 
Noailles. No, surely. 



QUEEN MARY. 



701 



Mary. I can make allowance for 

thee, 
Thou Bpeakest of the enemy of thy 
king. 
Noailles. Make no allowance for the 
naked truth. 
He is every way a lesser man than 

Charles ; ' 
Stone-hard, ice-cold — no dash of dar- 
ing in him. 
Mary. If cold, his life is pure. 
Noailles. Why (smiling), no, indeed. 
Man/. Sayst thou ? 
Noailles. A very wanton life indeed 

(smiling). 
Mary. Your audience is concluded, 
sir. [Exit Noailles. 

You cannot 
Learn a man's nature from his natural 

t H . 

Enter Usher. 

Who waits ? 
Usher. The Ambassador of Spain, 
your Grace. [Exit. 

Enter SlMON Eexard. 

Mary (rising to meet him). Thou art 

ever welcome, Simon Kenard. 

Hast thou 
Brought me the letter which thine 

Emperor promised 
Long since, a formal offer of the hand 
Of Philip ' 

Renard. Nay, your Grace, it hath 

not reach'd me. 
I know not wherefore — some mis- 
chance of flood, 
And broken bridge, or spavin'd horse, 

or wave 
And wind at their old battle : he must 

have written. 
Mary. But Philip never writes me 

one poor word, 
Which in his absence had been all my 

wealth. 
Strange in a wooer! 

Renard. Vet I know the Prince, 

So your king-parliament suffer him to 

land, 
Yearns to set foot upon your island 

shore. 



Mary. God change the pebble 

which his kingly foot 
First presses into some more costly 

stone 
Than ever blinded eye. I'll have one 

mark it 
And bring it me. I'll have it burnish'd 

firelike ; 
I'll set it round with gold, with pearl, 

with diamond. 
Let the great angel of the church 

come with him ; 
Stand on the deck and spread his 

wings for sail ! 
God lay the waves and strow the 

storms at sea, 
And here at land among the people ! 

O Eenard, 
I am much beset, I am almost in de- 
spair. 
Paget is ours. Gardiner perchance is 

ours ; 
But for our heretic Parliament — 

Renard. O Madam, 

You fly your thoughts like kites. My 

master, Charles, 
Bade you go softly with your heretics 

here, 
Until your throne had ceased to trem- 
ble. Then 
Spit them like larks for aught I care. 

Besides, 
When Henry broke the carcase of 

your church 
To pieces, there were many wolves 

among you 
Who dragg'd the scatter'd limbs into 

their den. 
The Pope would have you make them 

render these ; 
So would your cousin, Cardinal Pole ; 

ill counsel ! 
These let them keep at present; stir 

not yet 
This matter of the Church lands. At 

his coming 
Your star will rise. 

Mary. My star! a baleful one. 

I see but the black night, and hear the 

wolf. 
What star '<■. 



702 



QUEEN MARY. 



Benard. Your star will be your 
princely son, 
Heir of this England and the Nether- 
lands ! 
And if your wolf the while should 

howl for more, 
We'll dust him from a bag of Spanish 

gold. 
I do believe, I have dusted some al- 
ready, 
That, soon or late, your Parliament is 
ours. 
Mary. Why do they talk so foully 
of your Prince, 
Renard 1 

Benard. The lot of Princes. To sit 
high 
Is to be lied about. 

Mary. They call him cold, 

Haughty, ay, worse. 

Renard. Why, doubtless, Philip 
shows 
Some of the bearing of your blue 

blood — still 
All within measure — nay, it well 
becomes him. 
Mary. Hath he the large ability of 

his father % 
Renard. Nay, some believe that he 

will go beyond him. 
Mary. Is this like him ? 
Renard. Ay, somewhat; but your 
Philip 
Is the most princelike Prince beneath 

the sun. 
This is a daub to Philip. 

Mary. Of a pure life ? 

Benard. As an angel among angels. 
Yea, by Heaven, 
The text — Your Highness knows it, 

"Whosoever 
Looketh after a woman," would not 

graze 
The Prince of Spain. You are happy 

in him there, 
Chaste as your Grace ! 

Mary. I am happy in him there. 
Benard. And would be altogether 
happy, Madam, 
So that your sister were but look'd to 
closer. 



You have sent her from the court, but 

then she goes, 
I warrant, not to hear the nightingales, 
But hatch you some new treason in 

the woods i 
Mary. We have our spies abroad 

to catch her tripping, 
And then if caught, to the Tower. 

Benard. The Tower ! the block ! 
The word has turn'd your Highness 

pale ; the thing 
Was no such scarecrow in your father's 

time. 
I have heard, the tongue yet quiver'd 

with the jest 
When the head leapt — so common ! 

I do think 
To save your crown that it must come 

to this. 
Mary. No, Renard ; it must never 

come to this. 
Benard. Not yet; but your old 

Traitors of the Tower — 
Why, when you put Northumberland 

to death, 
The sentence having past upon them 

all, 
Spared you the Duke of Suffolk, 

Guildford Dudley, 
Ev'n that young girl who dared to 

wear your crown 1 
Mary. Dared? nay, not so; the 

child obey'd her father. 
Spite of her tears her father forced it 

on her. 
Benard. Good Madam, when the 

Roman wish'd to reign, 
He slew not him alone who wore the 

purple, 
But his assessor in the throne, per- 
chance 
A child more innocent than Lady Jane. 
Mary. I am English Queen, not 

Roman Emperor. 
Benard. Yet too much mercy is a 

•want of mercy, 
And wastes more life. Stamp out the 

fire, or this 
Will smoulder and re-flame, and burn 

the throne 
Where you should sit with Philip ; he 

will not come 



QUEEN MARY. 



703 



Till she be gone. 

Man/. Indeed, if that were true — 
For Philip comes, one hand in mine, 

and one 
Steadying the tremulous pillars of the 

" Church — 
But no, no, no. Farewell. I am 

somewhat faint 
With our long talk. Tho' Queen, I 

am not Queen 
Of mine own heart, which every now 

and then 
Beats me half dead : yet stay, this 

golden chain — 
My fatiier on a birthday gave it me, 
And I have broken with my father — 

take 
And wear it as a memorial of a morn- 
ing 
Which found me full of foolish doubts, 

and leaves me 
As hopeful. 
Renard (aside). Whew — the folly of 

all follies 
Is to be love-sick for a shadow. 

(Aloud) Madam, 
This chains me to your service, not 

with gold, 
But dearest links of love. Farewell, 

and trust me, 
Philip is yours. [Exit. 

Mary. Mine — but not yet all mine. 

Enter Usher. 

Usher. Your Council is in Session, 

please your Majesty. 
Mary. Sir, let them sit. I must 

have time to breathe. 
No, say I come. (Exit Usher.) I 

won by boldness once. 
The Emperor counsell'd me to fly to 

Flanders. 
I would not ; but a hundred miles I 

rode, 
Sent out my letters, call'd my friends 

together, 
-Struck home and won. 
And when the Council would not 

crown me — thought 
To bind me first by oaths I could not 

keep, 



And keep with Christ and conscience 

— was it boldness 
Or weakness that won there 1 when I, 

their Queen, 
Cast myself down upon my knees 

before them, 
And those hard men brake into woman 

tears, 
Ev'n Gardiner, all amazed, and in that 

passion 
Gave me my Crown. 

Enter Alice. 
Girl ;.hast thou ever heard 
Slanders against Prince Philip in our 
Court 1 
Alice. What slanders ? I, your 

Grace ; no, never. 
Mary. Nothing ? 

Alice. Never, your Grace. 
Mary. See that you neither hear 

them nor repeat ! 
Alice (aside). Good Lord! but I 
have heard a thousand such. 
Ay, and repeated them as often — 

mum ! 
Why comes that old fox-Fleming back 
again ? 

Enter Renard. 
Renard. Madam, I scarce had left 
your Grace's presence 
Before I chanced upon the messenger 
Who brings that letter which we 

waited for — 
The formal offer of Prince Philip's 

hand. 
It craves an instant answer, Ay or 
No. 
Mary. An instant Ay or No ! the 
Council sits. 
Give it me quick. 

Alice (stepping before her). Your 

Highness is all trembling. 
Mary. Make way. 

\_Exit into the Council Chamber. 
Alice. O, Master Renard, Master 
Renard, 
If you have falsely painted your fine 

Prince; 
Praised, where you should have 
blamed him, I pray God 



704 



QUEEN MARY. 



No woman ever love you, Master 

Renard. 
It breaks my heart to hear her moan 

at night 
As tho' the nightmare never left her 
bed. 
Renard. My pretty maiden, tell me, 
did you ever 
Sigh for a beard ? 
Alice. That's not a pretty question. 
Renard. Not prettily put ? I mean, 
my pretty maiden, 
A pretty man for such a pretty 
maiden. 
Alice. My Lord of Devon is a pretty 
man. 
I hate him. Well, but if I have, what 
then? 
Renard. Then, pretty maiden, you 
should know that whether 
A wind be warm or cold, it serves to 

fan 
A kindled fire. 

Alice. According to the song. 

His friends would praise him, I believed 'em, 
His foes would blame him, and 1 scorn'd 
'em, 

His friends — as Angels I received 'em, 
His foes — the Devil had suborn'd 'em. 

Renard. Peace, pretty maiden. 

I hear them stirring in the Council 
Chamber. 

Lord Paget's "Ay" is sure — who 
else 1 and yet, 

They are all too much at odds to close 
at once 

In one full-throated No ! Her High- 
ness comes. 



Enter Mary. 

Alice. How deathly pale ! — a chair, 
your Highness. 

[Bringing one to the Queen. 
Renard. Madam, 

The Council 1 

Mary. Ay ! My Philip is all mine. 
[Sinks into chair, half fainting. 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. — Allington Castle. 

Sir Thomas Wyatt. I do not hear 

from Carew or the Duke 
Of Suffolk, and till then I should not 

move. 
The Duke hath gone to Leicester; 

Carew stirs 
In Devon : that fine porcelain Courte- 

nay, 
Save that he fears he might be crack'd 

in using, 
(I have known a semi-madman in my 

time 
So fancy-ridd'n) should be in Devon 

too. 

Enter William. 
News abroad, William 1 

William. None so new, Sir Thomas, 
and none so old, Sir Thomas. No 
new news that Philip comes to wed 
Mary, no old news that all men hate 
it. Old Sir Thomas would have hated 
it. The bells are ringing at Maidstone. 
Doesn't your worship hear ? 

Wyatt. Ay, for the Saints are come 

to reign again. 
Most like it is a Saint's-day. There's 

no call 
As yet forme ; so in this pause, before 
The mine be fired, it were a pious 

work 
To string my father's sonnets, left 

about 
Like loosely-scatter'd jewels, in fair 

order, 
And head them with a lamer rhyme 

of mine, 
To grace his memory. 

William. Ay, why not, Sir Thomas ? 
He was a fine courtier, he ; Queen 
Anne loved him. All the women 
loved him. I loved him, I was in 
Spain with him. I couldn't eat in 
Spain, I couldn't sleep in Spain. I 
hate Spain, Sir Thomas. 

Wyatt. But thou could'st drink in 

Spain if I remember. 



QUE EX MARY. 



705 



William. Sir Thomas, we may grant 
the wine. Old Sir Thomas always 
granted the wine. 

Wyatt. Hand me the casket with my 
father's Bonnets. 

William. Ay — sonnets — a fine 

courtier of the old Court, old Sir 

Thomas. [Exit. 

Wyatt. Courtier of many courts, he 

loved the more 

His own gray towers, plain life and 

letter'd peace, 
To read and rhyme in solitary fields, 
The lark ahove, the nightingale below, 
And answer them in song. The sire 

begets 
Not half his likeness in the son. I 

fail 
Where he was fullest : yet — to write 
• it down. \_He writes. 

Re-enter William. 

William. There is news, there is 
news, and no call for sonnet-sorting 
now, nor for sonnet-making either, but 
ten thousand men on Penenden Heath 
all calling after your worship, and 
your worship's name heard into Maid- 
stone market, and your worship the 
first man in Kent and Christendom, 
for the Queen's down, and the world's 
up. and your worship a-top of it. 
Wyatt. Inverted JEsop — mountain 
out of mouse. 
Say for ten thousand ten — and pot- 
house knaves, 
Brain-dizzied with a draught of morn- 
ing ale. 

Enter Antony Knyvett. 

William. Here's Antony Knyvett. 
Knyvett. Look you, Master Wyatt, 
Tear up that woman's work there. 

Wyatt. No ; not these, 

Dumb children of my father, that will 

speak 
When I and thou and all rebellions 

lie 
Dead bodies without voice. Song 

flies you know 
For ages. 



Knyvett. Tut, your sonnet's a flying 

ant, 
Wing'd for a moment. 

Wyatt. Well, for mine own work, 

[ Tearing the paper. 

It lies there in six pieces at your feet ; 

For all that I can carry it in my head. 

Knyvett. If you can carry your head 

upon your shoulders. 
Wyatt. I fear you come to carry it 

off my shoulders, 
And sonnet-making's safer. 

Knyvett. Why, good Lord, 

Write you as many sonnets as you 

will. 
Ay, but not now ; what, have you 

eyes, ears, brains 7 
This Philip and the black-faced 

swarms of Spain, 
The hardest, cruellest people in the 

world, 
Come locusting upon us, eat us up, 
Confiscate lands, goods, money — 

Wyatt, Wyatt, 
Wake, or the stout old island will 

become 
A rotten limb of Spain. They roar 

for you 
On Penenden Heath, a thousand of 

them — more — 
All arm'd, waiting a leader; there's 

no glory 
Like his who saves his country : and 

you sit 
Sing-songing here ; but, if I'm any 

judge, 
By God, you are as poor a poet, 

Wyatt, 
As a good soldier. 

Wyatt. You as poor a critic 

As an honest friend: you stroke me 

on one cheek, 
Buffet the other. Come, you bluster, 

Antony ! 
You know I know all this. I must 

not move 
Until 1 hear from Care wand the Duke, 
I fear the mine is fired before the 

time. 
Knyvett {showing a paper). But 

here's some Hebrew. Faith, I 

half forgot it. 



706 



QUEEN MARY. 



Look ; can you make it English 1 A 

strange youth 
Suddenly thrust it on me, whisper'd, 

" Wyatt," 
And whisking round a corner, show'd 

his back 
Before I read his face. 

Wyatt. Ha ! Courtenay's cipher. 

[Reads. 
" Sir Peter Carew fled to France : it 
is thought the Duke will be taken. 
I am with you still ; but, for appear- 
ance sake, stay with the Queen. Gar- 
diner knows, but the Council are all at 
odds, and the Queen hath no force for 
resistance. Move, if you move, at 
once." 

Is Peter Carew fled ? Is the Duke 

taken 1 
Down scabbard, and out sword ! and 

let Rebellion 
Roar till throne rock, and crown fall. 

No ; not that ; 
But we will teach Queen Mary how to 

reign. 
Who are those that shout below there ? 
Knyvett. Why, some fifty 

That follow'd me from Penenden 

Heath in hope 
To hear you speak. 

Wyatt. Open the window, Knyvett ; 
The mine is fired, and I will speak to 

them. 

Men of Kent ; England of England ; 
you that have kept your old customs 
upright, while all the rest of England 
bow'd theirs to the Norman, the cause 
that hath brought us together is not 
the cause of a county or a shire, but 
of this England, in whose crown our 
Kent is the fairest jewel. Philip shall 
not wed Mary ; and ye have called me 
to be your leader. I know Spain. I 
have been there with my father; I 
have seen them in their own land ; 
have marked the haughtiness of their 
nobles; the cruelty of their priests. 
If this man marry our Queen, however 
the Council and the Commons may 
fence round his power with restriction, 



he will be King, King of England, my 
masters ; and the Queen, and the laws, 
and the people, his slaves. What ? 
shall we have Spain on the throne and 
in the parliament ; Spain in the pulpit 
and on the law-bench ; Spain in all the 
great offices of state ; Spain in our 
ships, in our forts, in our houses, in 
our beds ? 

Crowd. No ! no ! no Spain ! 

William. No Spain in our beds — 
that were worse than all . I have been 
there with old Sir Thomas, and the 
beds I know. I hate Spain. 

A Peasant. But, Sir Thomas, must we 
levy war against the Queen's Grace ? 

Wyatt. No, my friend; war for the 
Queen's Grace — to save her from her- 
self and Philip — war against Spain. 
And think not we shall be alone — 
thousands will flock to us. The 
Council, the Court itself, is on our side. 
The Lord Chancellor himself is on our 
side. The King of France is with us ; 
the King of Denmark is with us ; the 
world is with us — war against Spain ! 
And if we move not now, yet it will be 
known that we have moved ; and if 
Philip come to be King, O, my God ! 
the rope, the rack, the thumbscrew, 
the stake, the fire. If we move not 
now, Spain moves, bribes our nobles 
with her gold, and creeps, creeps 
snake-like about our legs till we can- 
not move at all; and ye know, my 
masters, that wherever Spain hath 
ruled she hath wither'd all beneath 
her. Look at the New World — a 
paradise made hell ; the red man, that 
good helpless creature, starved, 
maim'd, flogg'd, flay'd, burn'd, boil'd, 
buried alive, worried by dogs; and 
here, nearer home, the Netherlands, 
Sicily, Naples, Lombardy. I say no 
more — only this, their lot is yours. 
Forward to London with me ! forward 
to London ! If ye love your liberties 
or your skins, forward to London ! 

Crowd. Forward to London! A 
Wyatt ! a Wyatt ! 

Wyatt. But first to Rochester, to 
take the guns 



QUEEN MARY. 



707 



From out the vessels lying i n the 

river. 
Then on. 

A Peasant. Ay, hut I fear we he too 

tew. Sir Thomas. 
Wyatt. Not many yet. The world 
;is yet, my friend, 
Is not half-waked; hut every parish 

tower 
Shall clang and clash alarum as we 

pass, 
And pour along the land, and swoll'n 

and fed 
With indraughts and side-currents, in 

full force 
Roll upon London. 

Crowd. A Wyatt! a Wyatt! For- 
ward ! 
Knyvett. Wyatt, shall we proclaim 

Elizabeth ? 
Wyatt. I'll think upon it, Knyvett. 
Knyvett. Or Lady -lane ? 

Wyatt. No, poor soul ; no. 
Ah, gray old castle of Aliington, green 

field 
Beside the brimming Medway, it may 

chance 
That I shall never look upon you 
more. 
Knyvett. Come, now, you're sonnet- 
ting again. 
Wyatt. Not I. 

I'll have my head set higher in the 

state ; 
)r — if the Lord God will it — on the 
stake. [Exeunt. 

SCENE II. — Guildhall. 

Sib Thomas White (The Lord 
Mayor), Lord William Howard, 
Sir Ralph Bagenhall, Alder- 
men and Citizens. 

White. I trust the Queen comes 

hither with her guards. 
Howard. Ay, all in arms. 

'■/ of the citizens move hastily 

out of the hall. 

Why do they hurry out there ? 
White. My Lord, cut out the rotten 

from your apple, 



Your apple eats the better. Let them 

go. 
They go like those old Pharisees in 

John 
Convicted by their conscience, arrant 

cowards, 
Or tamperers with that treason out of 

Kent. 
When will her Grace be here ? 

Howard. In some few minutes. 

She will address your guilds and com- 
panies. 
I have striven in vain to raise a man 

for her. 
But help her in this exigency, make 
Your city loyal, and be the mightiest 

man 
This day in England. 

White. I am Thomas White. 

Few things have fail'd to which I set 

my will. 
I do my most and best. 

Howard. You know that after 

The Captain Brett, who went with 

your train bands 
To fight with Wyatt, had gone over 

to him 
With all his men, the Queen in that 

distress 
Sent Cornwallis and Hastings to the 

traitor, 
Feigning to treat with him about her 

marriage — 
Know too what Wyatt said. 

White. He'd sooner be, 

While this same marriage question 

was being argued, 
Trusted than trust — the scoundrel — 

and demanded 
Possession of her person and the 

Tower. 
Howard. And four of her poor 

Council too, my Lord, 
As hostages. 

White. I know it. What do and 

say 
Your Council at this hour ? 

Howard. I will trust you. 

We fling ourselves on you, my Lord. 

The Council, 
The Parliament as well, are troubled 

waters : 



F08 



QUEEN MARY. 



And yet like waters of the fen they 

know not 
Which way to flow. All hangs on her 

address, 
And upon you, Lord Mayor. 

White. How look'd the city 

When now you past it ? Quiet 1 

Howard. Like our Council, 

Your city is divided. As we past, 
Some hail'd, some hiss'd us. There 

were citizens 
Stood each before his shut-up booth, 

and look'd 
As grim and grave as from a funeral. 
And here a knot of ruffians all in 

rags, 
With execrating execrable eyes, 
Glared at the citizen. Here was a 

young mother, 
Her face on flame, her red hair all 

blown back, 
She shrilling " Wyatt," while the boy 

she held 
Mimick'd and piped her " Wyatt," as 

red as she 
In hair and cheek ; and almost elbow- 
ing her, 
So close they stood; another, mute as 

death, 
And white as her own milk ; her babe 

in arms 
Had felt the faltering of his mother's 

heart, 
And look'd as bloodless. Here a pious 

Catholic, 
Mumbling and mixing up in his scared 

prayers 
Heaven and earth's Maries ; over his 

bow'd shoulder 
Scowl'd that world-hated and world- 
hating beast, 
A haggard Anabaptist. Many such 

groups. 
The names of Wyatt, Elizabeth, 

Courtenay, 
Nay the Queen's right to reign — 'fore 

God, the rogues — 
Were freely buzzed among them. So 

I say 
Your city is divided, and I fear 
One scruple, this or that way, of suc- 
cess 



Would turn it thither. Wherefore 

now the Queen 
In this low pulse and palsy of the 

state, 
Bade me to tell you that she counts on 

you 
And on myself as her two hands; on 

you, 
In your own city, as her right, my 

Lord, 
For you are loyal. 

White. Am I Thomas White ? 

One word before she comes Eliza- 
beth — 
Her name is much abused among 

these traitors. 
Where is she 1 She is loved by all 

of us. 
I scarce have heart to mingle in this 

matter, 
If she should be mishandled. 

Hoicard. No ; she shall not. 

The Queen had written her word to 

come to court : 
Methought I smelt out Iienard in the 

letter, 
And fearing for her, sent a secret mis- 
sive, 
Which told her to be sick. Happily 

or not, 
It found her sick indeed. 

White. God send her well ; 

Here comes her Royal Grace. 

Enter Guards, Mary, and Gardiner. 
Sir Thomas White leads her to a 
raised seat on the dais. 
White. I, the Lord Mayor, and 

these our companies 
And guilds of London, gathered here, 

beseech 
Your Highness to accept our lowliest 

thanks 
For your most princely presence ; and 

we pray 
That we, your true and loyal citizens, 
From your own royal lips, at once 

may know 
The wherefore of this coining, and so 

learn 
Your royal will, and do it — I, Lord 

Mayor 



QUEEN MARY. 



709 



Of London, and our guilds and com- 
panies. 
Mary. In mine own person am I 

come to you. 
To tell you what indeed ye see and 

know, 
How traitorously these rebels out of 

Kent 
Have made strong head against our- 
selves and you. 
They would not have me wed the 

Prince of Spain ; 
That was their pretext — so they 

spake at first — 
But we sent divers of our Council to 

them, 
And by their answers to the question 

ask'd, 
It doth appear this marriage is the 

least 
Of all their quarrel. 
They have betrayed the treason of 

their hearts : 
Seek to possess our person, hold our 

Tower, 
Place and displace our councillors, and 

use 
Both us and them according as they 

will. 
Now what I am ye know right well — 

your Queen; 
To whom, when I was wedded to the 

realm 
And the realm's laws (the spousal 

ring whereof, 
Not ever to be laid aside, I wear 
Upon this finger), ye did promise 

full 
Allegiance and obedience to the death. 
Ye know my father was the rightful 

heir 
( »f England, and his right came down 

to inc. 
Corroborate by your acts of Parlia- 
ment : 
And as ye were most loving unto him, 
So doubtless will ye show yourselves 

to me. 
Wherefore, ye will not brook that 

anyone 
Should seize our person, occupy our 

state. 



More specially a traitor so presumptu- 
ous 

As this same Wyatt, who hath tam- 
per'd with 

A public ignorance, and, under color 

Of such a cause as hath no color, seeks 

To bend the laws to his own will, and 
yield 

Full scope to persons rascal and for- 
lorn, 

To make free spoil and havock of 
your goods. 

Now as your Prince, I say, 

I, that was never mother, cannot tell 

How mothers love their children ; yet, 
methinks, 

A prince as naturally may love his 
people 

As these their children ; and be sure 
your Queen 

So loves you, and so loving, needs 
must deem 

This love by you return'd as heartily ; 

And thro' this common knot and bond 
of love, 

Doubt not they will be speedily over- 
thrown. 

As to this marriage, ye shall under- 
stand 

We made thereto no treaty of ourselves, 

And set no foot theretoward unadvised 

Of all our Privy Council; furthermore, 

This marriage had the assent of those 
to whom 

The king, my father, did commit his 
trust ; 

Who not alone esteem'd it honorable, 

But for the wealth and glory of our 
realm, 

And all our loving subjects, most ex- 
pedient. 

As to myself, 

T am not so set on wedlock as to choose 

But where I list, nor yet so amorous 

That I must needs be husbanded ; I 
thank God, 

I have lived a virgin, and I noway doubt 

But that with God's grace, I can live 
so still. 

Vet if it might please God that I 
should leave 

Some fruit of mine own body after me, 



710 



QUEEN MARY. 



To be your king, ye would rejoice 
thereat, 

And it would be your comfort, as I 
trust; 

And truly, if I either thought or knew 

This marriage should bring loss or 
danger to you, 

My subjects, or impair in any way 

This royal state of England, I would 
never 

Consent thereto, nor marry while Hive: 

Moreover, if this marriage should not 
seem, 

Before our own High Court of Parlia- 
ment, 

To be of rich advantage to our realm, 

We will refrain, and not alone from 
this, 

Likewise from any other, out of which 

Looms the least chance of peril to our 
realm. 

Wherefore be bold, and with your law- 
ful Prince 

Stand fast against our enemies and 
yours, 

And fear them not. I fear them not. 
My Lord, 

I leave Lord William Howard in your 
city, 

To guard and keep you whole and 
safe from all 

The spoil and sackage aim'd at by 
these rebels, 

Who mouth and foam against the 
Prince of Spain. 
Voices. Long live Queen Mary ! 
Down with Wyatt ! 

The Queen ! 
White. Three voices from our guilds 
and companies ! 

You are shy and proud like English- 
men, my masters, 

And will not trust your voices. Under- 
stand : 

Your lawful Prince hath come to cast 
herself 

On loyal hearts and bosoms, hoped to 
fall 

Into the wide-spread arms of fealty, 

And finds you statues. Speak at once 
— and all ! 

For whom 1 



Our sovereign Lady by King Harry's 
will; 

The Queen of England — or the Kent- 
ish Squire ? 

I know you loyal. Speak! in the 
name of God ! 

The Queen of England or the rabble 
of Kent 1 

The reeking dungfork master of the 
mace ! 

Your havings wasted by the scythe 
and spade — 

Your rights and charters hobnail'd 
into slush — 

Your houses fired — your gutters 

bubbling blood 

Acclamation. No ! No ! The Queen ! 

the Queen! 
White. Your Highness hears 

This burst and bass of loyal harmony, 

And how we each and all of us abhor 

The venomous, bestial, devilish revolt 

Of Thomas Wyatt. Hear us now 
make oath 

To raise your Highness thirty thou- 
sand men, 

And arm and strike as with one hand, 
and brush 

This Wyatt from our shoulders, like 
a flea 

That might have leapt upon us un- 
awares. 

Swear with me, noble fellow-citizens, 
all, 

With all your trades, and guilds, and 
companies. 
Citizens. We swear ! 
Mary. We thank your Lordship and 
your loyal city. 

[Exit Mary attended. 
White. I trust this day, thro' God, 

I have saved the crown. 
First Alderman. Ay, so my Lord 
of Pembroke in command 

Of all her force be safe ; but there are 
doubts. 
Second Alderman. I hear that Gar- 
diner, coming with the Queen, 

And meeting Pembroke, bent to his 
saddle-bow, 

As if to win the man by flattering him. 

Is he so safe to fight upon her side 1 



QUEEN MARY 



71 J 



First Alderman. If not, there's no 

man safe. 
White. Yes, Thomas White. 

I am safe enough ; no man need flat- 
ter me. 
Second Alderman. Nay, no man 

need ; but did yon mark our 

Queen \ 
The color freely play'd into her 

face, 
And the half sight winch makes her 

look so stern, 
Seem'd thro' that dim dilated world 

of hers, 
To read our faces ; I have never seen 

her 
So queenly or so goodly. 

White. Courage, sir, 

That makes or man or woman look 

their goodliest. 
Die like the torn fox dumb, but never 

whine 
Like that poor heart, Northumberland, 

at the block. 
BarjenhalL The man had children, 

and he whined for those. 
Methinks most men are but poor- 
hearted, else 
Should we so dote on courage, were 

it commoner ? 
The Queen stands up, and speaks for 

her own self ; 
And all men cry, She is queenly, she 

is goodly. 
Yet she's no goodlier ; tho' my Lord 

Mayor here, 
By his own rule, he hath been so bold 

to-day, 
Should look more goodly than the 

rest of us. 
White. Goodly ? I feel most good- 
ly heart and hand, 
And strong to throw ten Wyatts and 

all Kent. 
Ha ! ha ! sir ; but you jest ; I love it : 

a jest 
In time of danger shows the pulses 

even. 
Be merry ! yet, Sir Ralph, you look 

but sad. 
I dare avouch you'd stand up for 

yourself. 



Tho' all the world should bay like 

winter wolves. 
Bagcnhall. Who knows ? the man 

is proven by the hour. 
White. The man should make the 

hour, not this the man ; 
And Thomas White will prove this 

Thomas Wyatt, 
And he will prove an Men to this 

Cade, 
And he will play the Walworth to 

this Wat ; 
Come, sirs, we prate ; hence all — 

gather your men — 
Myself must bustle. Wyatt comes 

to Southwark ; 
I'll have the drawbridge hewn into 

the Thames, 
And see the citizens arm'd. Good 

day ; good day. [Exit White. 
Baejenliall. One of much outdoor 

bluster. 
Howard. For all that, 

Most honest, brave, and skilful; and 

his wealth 
A fountain of perennial alms — his 

fault 
So thoroughly to believe in his own 

sell 
Bagenhall. Yet thoroughly to be- 
lieve in one's own self, 
So one's own self be thorough, were 

to do 
Great things, my Lord. 

Howard. It may be. 

Bagenhall. I have heard 

One of your Council fleer and jeer at 

him. 
Howard. The nursery-cocker'd child 

will jeer at aught 
That may seem strange beyond his 

nursery. 
The statesman that shall jeer and fleer 

at men, 
Makes enemies for himself and for his 

king; 
And if he jeer not seeing the true 

man 
Behind his folly, he is thrice the 

fool; 
And if he see the man and still will 

jeer, 



712 



QUEEN MARY. 



He is child and fool, and traitor to the 

State. 
Who is he ? let me shun him. 

Bagenhall. Nay, my Lord, 

He is damn'd enough already. 

Howard. I must set 

The guard at Ludgate. Fare you 

well, Sir Kalph. 

Bagenhall. " Who knows ? " I am for 

England. But who knows, 

That knows the Queen, the Spaniard, 

and the Pope, 
Whether I be for Wyatt, or the 
Queen 1 [Exeunt. 

SCENE III. — London Bridge. 

Enter Sir Thomas Wyatt and 
Brett. 

Wyatt. Brett, when the Duke of 

Norfolk moved against us 
Thou cried'st " A Wyatt ! " and flying 

to our side 
Left his all bare, for which I love 

thee, Brett. 
Have for thine asking aught that I 

can give, 
For thro' thine help we are come to 

London Bridge ; 
But how to cross it balks me. I fear 

we cannot. 
Brett. Nay, hardly, save by boat, 

swimming, or wings. 
Wyatt. Last night I climb'd into 

the gate-house, Brett, 
And scared the gray old porter and 

his wife. 
And then I crept along the gloom and 

saw 
They had hewn the drawbridge down 

into the river. 
It roll'd as black as death ; and that 

same tide 
Which, coming with our coming, 

seem'd to smile 
And sparkle like our fortune as thou 

saidest, 
Ran sunless down, and moan'd against 

the piers. 
But o'er the chasm I saw Lord Wil- 
liam Howard 



By torchlight, and his guard ; four 

guns gaped at me, 
Black, silent mouths : had Howard 

spied me there 
And made them speak, as well he 

might have done, 
Their voice had left me none to tell 

you this. 
What shall we do 1 

Brett. On somehow. To go back 
Were to lose all. 

Wyatt. On over London Bridge 

We cannot: stay we cannot; there is 

ordnance 
On the White Tower and on the Devil's 

Tower, 
And pointed full at Southwark ; we 

must round 
By Kingston Bridge. 

Brett. Ten miles about. 

Wyatt. Ev'n so. 

But I have notice from our partisans 
Within the city that they will stand 

by us 
If Ludgate can be reach'd by dawn to- 
morrow. 

Enter one of Wyatt's men. 
Man. Sir Thomas, I've found this 
paper ; pray your worship read it ; I 
know not my letters; the old priests 
taught me nothing. 

Wyatt (reads). "Whosoever will 
apprehend the traitor Thomas Wyatt 
shall have a hundred pounds for re- 
ward." 

Man. Is that it 1 That's a big lot 

of money. 
Wyatt. Ay, ay, my friend ; not read 
it 1 'tis not written 
Half plain enough. Give me a piece 
of paper ! 
[ Writes " Thomas Wyatt " large. 
There, any man can read that. 

[Sticks it in his cap. 
Brett. But that's foolhardy. 

Wyatt. No ! boldness, which will 
give my followers boldness, 

Enter Man with a prisoner. 

Man. We found him, your worship, 
a plundering o' Bishop Winchester's 



QUEEN MARY 



713 



house ; he says he's a poor gentle- 
man. 

Wyatt. Gentleman! a thief! Go 
hang him. Shall we make 
Those that we come to serve our 
sharpest foes 1 
Brett. Sir Thomas — 

Wyatt. Hang him, I say. 

Brett. Wyatt, but now you promised 

me a boon. 
Wyatt. Ay, and I warrant this fine 

fellow's life. 
Brett. Ev'n so ; he was my neighbor 
once in Kent. 
He's poor enough, has drunk and 

gambled out 
All that he had, and gentleman he 

was. 
We have been glad together ; let him 
live. 
Wyatt. He has gambled for his 
life, and lost, he hangs. 
No, no, my word's my word. Take thy 

poor gentleman ! 
Gamble thyself at once out of my 

sight, 
Or I will dig thee with my dagger. 

Away ! 
"Women and children ! 

Enter a Crowd of Women and 
Children. 

First Woman. Sir Thomas, Sir 
Thomas, pray you go away, Sir 
Thomas, or you'll make the White 
Tower a black 'un for us this blessed 
day. He'll be the death on us ; 
and you'll set the DiviPs Tower a- 
spitting, and he'll smash all our bits 
o' things worse than Philip o' Spain. 

Second Woman. Don't ye now go to 
ihink that Ave be for Philip o' Spain. 

Third Woman. No, we know that 
ye be come to kill the Queen, and 
we'll pray for you all on our bended 
knees. But o' God's mercy don't ye 
kill the Queen here, Sir Thomas ; look 
ye, here's little Dickon, and little 
Robin, and little Jenny — though she's 
but a side-cousin — and all on our 
knees, we pray you to kill the Queen 
further off, Sir Thomas. 



Wyatt. My friends, I have not come 
to kill the Queen 
Or here or there : I come to save you 

all, 
And I'll go further off. 

Croivd. Thanks, Sir Thomas, we be 
beholden to you, and we'll pray for 
you on our bended knees till our lives' 
end. 

Wyatt. Be happy, I am your friend. 
To Kingston, forward! [Exeunt. 

SCENE IV. -Room in the Gate- 
house of Westminster Palace. 

Mart, Alice, Gardiner, Renard, 
Ladies. 

Gardiner. Their cry is, Philip never 

shall be king. 
Mary. Lord Pembroke in command 
of all our force 
Will front their cry and shatter them 
into dust. 
Alice. Was not Lord Pembroke 
with Northumberland ? 
O madam, if this Pembroke should be 
false 1 
Mary. No, girl ; most brave and 
loyal, brave and loyal. 
His breaking with Northumberland 

broke Northumberland. 
At the park gate he hovers with our 

guards. 
These Kentish ploughmen cannot 
break the guards. 

Enter Messenger. 

Messenger. Wyatt, your Grace, hath 
broken thro' the guards, 
And gone to Ludgate. 

Gardiner. Madam, I much fear 
That all is lost ; but we can save your 

Grace. 
The river still is free. I do beseech 

you, 
There yet is time, take boat and pass 
to Windsor. 
Mary. I pass to Windsor and I lose 

my crown. 
Gardiner. Pass, then, I pray your 
Highness, to the Tower. 



714 



QUEEN MARY. 



Mary. I shall but be their prisoner 

in the Tower. 
Cries without. The traitor ! treason ! 

Pembroke ! 
Ladies. Treason ! treason ! 

Mary. Peace. 
False to Northumberland, is he false 

to me? 
Bear witness, Renard, that I live and 

die 
The true and faithful bride of Philip 

— A sound 

Of feet and voices thickening hither. 

— blows — 

Hark, there is battle at the palace 

gates, 
And I will out upon the gallery. 
Ladies. No, no, your Grace ; see 

there the arrows flying. 
Mary. I am Harry's daughter, Tu- 
dor, and not fear. 

[ Goes out on the gallery. 
The guards are all driven in, skulk 

into corners 
Like rabbits to their holes. A gra- 
cious guard 
Truly ; shame on them ! they have 
shut the gates ! 

Enter Sir Robert Southwell. 

Southwell. The porter, please your 
Grace, hath shut the gates 
On friend and foe. Your gentlemen- 
at-arms, 
If this be not your Grace's order, cry 
To have the gates set wide again, and 

they 
With their good battleaxes will do you 

right 
Against all traitors. 

Mary. They are the flower of Eng- 
land ; set the gates wide. 

[Exit Southwell. 

Enter Courtenay. 

Courtenay. All lost, all lost, all 
yielded ! a barge, a barge ! 
The Queen must to the Tower. 

Mary. Whence come you, sir ? 

Courtenay. From Charing Cross ; 
the rebels broke us there, 



And I sped hither with what haste I 

might 
To save my royal cousin. 

Mary. Where is Pembroke ? 

Courtenay. I left him somewhere in 

the thick of it. 
Mary. Left him and fled ; and thou 
that would'st be King, 
And hast nor heart nor honor. I my- 
self 
Will down into the battle and there 

bide 
The upshot of my quarrel, or die with 

those 
That are no cowards and no Courte- 
nay s. 
Courtenay. I do not love your Grace 
should call me coward. 

Enter another Messenger. 
Messenger. Over, your Grace, all 
crush'd; the brave Lord Wil- 
liam 
Thrust him from Ludgate, and the 

traitor flying 
To Temple Bar, there by Sir Maurice 

Berkeley 
Was taken prisoner. 

Mary. To the Tower with him ! 

Messenger. 'Tis said he told Sir 
Maurice there was one 
Cognizant of this, and party thereunto, 
My Lord of Devon. 

Mary. To the Tower with him ! 

Courtenay. la, the Tower, the 
Tower, always the Tower, 
I shall grow into it — I shall be the 
Tower. 
Mary. Your lordship may not have 
so long to wait. 
Remove him! 

Courtenay. La, to whistle out my 
life, 
And carve my coat upon the walls 
again ! 

[Exit Courtenay guarded. 
Messenger. Also this Wyatt did 
confess the Princess 
Cognizant thereof, and party there- 
unto. 
Mary. What 1 whom — whom did 
you say ? 



QUEEN MARY. 



715 



Messenger. Elizabeth, 

Your Royal sister. 

Mar ij. To the Tower with her ! 

My foes are at my feet and I am 

Queen. 

[Gardiner and her Ladies kneel to her. 

Gardiner (rising). There let them 

lie,your footstool ! (Aside.) Can 

I strike 

Elizabeth ? — not now and save the 

life 
Of Devon : if I save him, he and his 
Are bound to me — may strike here- 
after. (Aloud.) Madam, 
What Wyatt said, or what they said 

he said, 
Cries of the moment and the street — 
Mar I/. He said it. 

Gardiner. Your courts of justice 

will determine that. 
Renard (advancing). I trust by this 
your Highness will allow 
Some spice of wisdom in my telling 

3 r ou, 
"When last we talk'd, that Philip would 

not come 
Till Guildford Dudley and the Duke of 

Suffolk, 
And Lady Jane had left us. 

Mary. They shall die. 

Renard. And your so loving sister ? 

Man/. . She shall die. 

My foes are at my feet, and Philip 

King. [Exeunt. 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. — The Conduit in Grace- 
church, 

Painted with the Nine Worthies, among 
them King Henry VIII. holding a 
book, on it inscribed " Verbum Dei." 

Enter Sir Ralph Bagenhall and Sir 

Thomas Stafford. 

Bagenhall. A hundred here and 

hundreds hang'd in Kent. 

The tigress had unsheatli'd her nails 

at last, 



And Renard and the Chancellor sharp- 

en'd them. 
In every London street a gibbet 

stood. 
They are down to-day. Here by this 

house was one; 
The traitor husband dangled at the 

door, 
And when the traitor wife came out 

for bread 
To still the petty treason there within, 
Her cap would brush his heels. 

Stafford. It is Sir Ralph, 

And muttering to himself as hereto- 
fore. 
Sir, see you aught up yonder 1 

Bagenhall. I miss something. 

The tree that only bears dead fruit is 
gone. 
Stafford. What tree, sir ? 
Bagenhall. Well, the tree in 

Virgil, sir, 
That bears not its own apples. 

Stafford. What ! the gallows ? 

Bagenhall. Sir, this dead fruit was 
ripening overmuch, 
And had to be removed lest living 

Spain 
Should sicken at dead England. 

Stafford. Not So dead, 

But that a shock may rouse her. 

Bagenhall. I believe 

Sir Thomas Stafford ? 

Stafford. I am ill disguised. 

Bagenhall. Well, are you not in 

peril here ? 
Stafford. I think so. 

I came to feel the pulse of England, 

whether 
It beats hard at this marriage. Did 
you see it ? 
Bagenhall. Stafford, I am a sad man 
and a serious. 
Far liefer had I in my country hall 
Been reading some old book, with 

mine old hound 
Couch'd at my hearth, and mine old 

flask of wine 
Beside me, than have seen it: yet I 
saw it. 
Stafford. Good, was it splendid 1 
Bagenhall. Ay, if Dukes, and Earls, 



716 



QUEEN MARY. 






And Counts, and sixty Spanish cava- 
liers, 
Some six or seven Bishops, diamonds, 

pearls, 
That royal commonplace too, cloth 

of gold, 
Could make it so. 

Stafford. And what was Mary's 

dress ? 
Bagenhall. Good faith, I was too 

sorry for the woman 
To mark the dress. She wore red 

shoes ! 
Stafford. Red shoes ! 

Bagenhall. Scarlet, as if her feet 

were wash'd in blood, 
As if she had waded in it. 

Stafford. Were your eyes 

So bashful that you looked no higher 1 

Bagenhall. A diamond, 

And Philip's gift, as proof of Philip's 

love, 
Who hath not any for any, — tho' a 

true one, 
Blazed false upon her heart. 

Stafford. But this proud Prince — 
Bagenhall. Nay, he is King, you 

know, the King of Naples. 
The father ceded Naples, that the son 
Being a' King, might wed a Queen — 

Ohe 
Flamed in brocade — white satin his 

trunkhose, 
Inwrought with silver, — on his neck 

a collar, 
Gold, thick with diamonds ; hanging 

down from this 
The Golden Fleece — and round his 

knee, misplaced, 
Our English Garter, studded with 

great emeralds, 
Rubies, I know not what. Have you 

had enough 
Of all this gear 1 

Stafford. Ay, since you hate the 

telling it. 
How look'd the Queen 1 

Bagenhall. No fairer for her jewels. 
And I could see that as the new-made 

couple 
Came from the Minster, moving side 

by Bide 



Beneath one canopy, ever and anon 
She cast on him a vassal smile of 

love, 
Which Philip with a glance of some 

distaste, 
Or so methought, return'd. I may be 

wrong, sir. 
This marriage will not hold. 

Stafford. I think with you. 

The King of France will help to break 

it, 
Bagenhall. France ! 

We once had half of France, and 

hurl'd our battles 
Into the heart of Spain ; but England 

now 
Is but a ball chuck' d between France 

and Spain, 
His in whose hand she drops ; Harry 

of Bolingbroke 
Had holpen Richard's tottering 

throne to stand, 
Could Harry have foreseen that all 

our nobles 
Would perish on the civil slaughter- 
field, 
And leave the people naked to the 

crown, 
And the crown naked to the people ; 

the crown 
Female, too ! Sir, no woman's regimen 
Can save us. We are fallen, and as I 

think, 
Never to rise again. 

Stafford. You are too black- 
blooded. 
I'd make a move myself to hinder 

that : 
I know some lusty fellows there in 

France. 
Bagenhall. You would but make us 

weaker, Thomas Stafford. 
Wvatt was a good soldier, yet he 

fail'd, 
And strengthen'd Philip. 

Stafford. Did not his last breath 
Clear Courtenay and the Princes6 

from the charge 
Of being his co-rebels ? 

Bagenhall. Ay, but then 

What such a one as Wyatt says is 

nothing : 



QUEEN MARY. 



717 



We have no men among ns. The new 
Lords 

Are quieted with their sop of Abbey- 
lands, 

And ev'n before the Queen's face 
Gardiner buys them 

With Philip's gold. All greed, no 
faith, no courage ! 

Why, ev'n the haughty prince, North- 
umberland, 

The leader of our Reformation, knelt 

And blubber'd like a lad, and on the 
scaffold 

Recanted, and resold himself to Rome. 
Stafford. I swear you do your 
country wrong. Sir Ralph. 

I know a set of exiles over there, 

Dare-devils, that would eat fire and 
spit it out 

At Philip's beard : they pillage Spain 
already. 

The French King winks at it. An 
hour will come 

When they will sweep her from the 
seas. No men 1 

Did not Lord Suffolk die like a true 
man i 

Is not Lord William Howard a true 
man ? 

Yea, you yourself, altho' you are 
black-blooded : 

And I, by God, believe myself a man. 

Ay, even in the church there is a 
man — 

Cranmer. 

Fly would he not, when all men bade 
him fly. 

And what a letter he wrote against 
the Pope! 

There's a brave man, if any. 

Bagenkall. Ay; if it hold. 

Crowd {coming on). God save their 
Graces ! 
ford. Bagenhall, I see 

The Tudor green and white. ( Trum- 
pets.) They are coming now. 

And here's a crowd as thick as her- 
ring-shoals. 
Bagenhall. Be limpets to this pillar, 
or we are torn 
i the strong wave of brawlers. 
Crowd. God save their Graces ! 



[Procession of Trumpeters, Jave- 
lin-men, etc. ; then Spanish and 
Flemish Nobles intermingled. 
Stafford. Worth seeing, Bagenhall ! 
These black dog-Dons 
Garb themselves bravely. Who's the 

long-face there, 
Looks very Spain of very Spain ? 

Bagenhall. The Duke 

Of Alva, an iron soldier. 

Stafford. And the Dutchman, 

Now laughing at some jest ? 

Bagenhall. William of Orange, 

William the Silent. 

Stafford. Why do they call him so ? 

Bagennall. He keeps, they say, 

some secret that may cost 

Philip his life. 

Stafford. But then he looks so 

merry. 
Bagenhall. I cannot tell you why 
they call him so. 
[The King and Queen pass, at- 
tended by Peers of the Realm, 
Officers of State, etc. Cannon 
shot off. 
Crowd. Philip and Mary, Philip 
and Mary ! 
Long live the King and Queen, Philip 
and Mary ! 
Stafford. They smile as if content 

with one another. 
Bagenhall. A smile abroad is oft a 
scowl at home. 
[King and Queen pass on. Pro- 
cession. 
First Citizen. I thought this Philip 
had been one of those black devils of 
Spain, but he hath a yellow beard. 
Second Citizen. Not red like 

Iscariot's. 
First Citizen. Like a carrot's, as 
thou say'st,and English carrot's better 
than Spanish licorice ; but I thought 
he was a beast. 

Third Citizen. Certain I had heard 
that every Spaniard carries a tail like 
a devil under his trunk-hose. 

Tailor. Ay, but see what trunk- 
hoses ! Lord ! they be flue ; I never 
stitch'd none such. They make amends 
for the tails. 



718 



QUEEN MARY. 



Fourth Citizen. Tut ! every Span- 
ish priest will tell you that all Eng- 
lish heretics have tails. 

Fifth Citizen. Death and the Devil 
— if he find I have one — 

Fourth Citizen. Lo ! thou hast 
calPd them up ! here they come — a 
pale horse for Death and Gardiner 
for the Devil. 

Enter Gardiner {turning back from 
the procession). 
Gardiner. Knave, wilt thou wear 

thy cap before the Queen ? 
Man. My Lord, I stand so squeezed 
among the crowd 
I cannot lift my hands unto my head. 
Gardiner. Knock off his cap there, 
some of you about him ! 
See there be others that can use their 

hands. 
Thou art one of Wyatt's men ? 

Man. No, my Lord, no. 

Gardiner. Thy name, thou knave 1 
Man. I am nobody, my Lord. 

Gardiner (shouting). God's passion ! 

knave, thy name ? 
Man. I have ears to hear. 

Gardiner. Ay, rascal, if I leave thee 
ears to hear. 
Find out his name and bring it me (to 
Attendant). 
Attendant. Ay, my Lord. 

Gardiner. Knave, thou shalt lose 
thine ears and find thy tongue, 
And shalt be thankful if I leave thee 
that. [Coming before the Conduit. 
The conduit painted — the nine wor- 
thies — ay ! 
But then what's here ? King Harry 

with a scroll. 
Ha — Verbum Dei — verbum — word 

of God ! 
God's passion ! do you know the knave 
that painted it 1 
Attendant. I do, my Lord. 
Gardiner. Tell him to paint it out, 
And put some fresh device in lieu of 

it — 
A pair of gloves, a pair of gloves, sir ; 

ha? 
There is no heresy there. 



Attendant. I will, my Lord ; 

The man shall paint a pair of gloves. 

I am sure 
(Knowing the man) he wrought it 

ignorantly, 
And not from any malice. 

Gardiner. Word of God 

In English ! over this the brainless 

loons 
That cannot spell Esa'ias from St. 

Paul, 
Make themselves drunk and mad, fly 

out and flare 
Into rebellions. I'll have their bibles 

burnt. 
The bible is the priest's. Ay ! f ellow, 

what ! 
Stand staring at me ! shout, you gap- 
ing rogue ' 
Man. I have, my Lord, shouted till 

I am hoarse. 
Gardiner. What hast thou shouted, 

knave 1 
Man. Long live Queen Mary ! 

Gardiner. Knave, there be two. 
There be both King and Queen, 
Philip and Mary. Shout ! 

Man. Nay, but, my Lord, 

The Queen comes first, Mary and 
Philip. 
Gardiner. Shout, then, 

Mary and Philip ! 

Man. Mary and Philip ! 

Gardiner. Now, 

Thou hast shouted for thy pleasure, 

shout for mine ! 
Philip and Mary ! 

Man. Must it be so, my Lord ? 

Gardiner. Ay, knave. 
Man. Philip and Mary ! 

Gardiner. I. distrust thee. 

Thine is a half voice and a lean 

assent. 
What is thy name ? 

Man. Sanders. 

Gardiner. What else ? 

Man. Zerubbabel. 

Gardiner. Where dost thou live ? 
Man. In Cornhill. 

Gardiner. Where, knave, where ? 
Man Sign of the Talbot 
Gardiner. Come tome to-morrow, — 



QUEEN MARY. 



719 



Rascal ! this land is like a hill of fire, 
One crater opens when another shuts. 
But so I get the laws against the 

heretic, 
Spite of Lord Paget and Lord William 

Howard, 
And others of our Parliament, revived, 
1 will show tire on my side — stake 

and fire — 
Sharp work and short. The knaves 

are easily eow'd. 
Follow their Majesties. 

[Exit. The croicd following. 
Bagenhall. As proud as Becket. 

Stafford. You would not have him 

murder'd as Becket was 1 
Bagenhall. No — murder fathers 

murder : but I say 
There is no man — there was one 

woman with us — 
It was a sin to love her married, dead 
I cannot choose but love her. 

Stafford. Lady Jane ? 

Crowd {going off). God save their 

Graces ! 
Stafford. Did you see her die ? 

Bagenhall. No, no ; her innocent 

blood had blinded me. 
You call me too black-blooded — true 

enough 
Her dark dead blood is in my heart 

with mine. 
If ever I cry out against the Pope 
Her dark dead blood that ever moves 

with mine 
Will stir the living tongue and make 

the cry. 
Stafford. Yet doubtless you can tell 

me how she died ? 
Bagenhall. Seventeen — and knew 

eight languages — in music 
Peerless — her needle perfect, and her 

learning 
Beyond the churchmen ; yet so meek, 

so modest, 
So wife-like humble to the trivial boy 
Mismatch'd with her for policy ! I 

have heard 
She would not take a last farewell of 

him, 
She fear'd it might unman him i'oi his 

end. 



no, nor 



She could not be unmann'd 

outwoman'd — 
Seventeen — a rose of grace ! 
Girl never breathed to rival such 

a rose ; 
Rose never blew that equall'd such a 

bud. 
Stafford. Pray you go on. 
Bagenhall. She came upon the scaf- 
fold, 
And said she was condemn'd to die 

for treason ; 
She had but followed the device of 

those 
Her nearest kin : she thought they 

knew the laws. 
But for herself, she knew but little law, 
And nothing of the titles to the 

crown ; 
She had no desire for that, and wrung 

her hands, 
And trusted God would save her thro' 

the blood 
Of Jesus Christ alone. 

Stafford. Pray you go on. 

Bagenhall. Then knelt and said the 

Miserere Mei — 
But all in English, mark you; rose 

again, 
And, when the headsman pray'd to be 

forgiven, 
Said " You will give me my true crown 

at last, 
But do it quickly ; " then all wept but 

she, 
Who changed not color when she saw 

the block, 
But ask'd him, childlike : " Will you 

take it off 
Before I lay me down 1 ?" "No, 

madam," he said, 
Gasping ; and when her innocent eyes 

were bound, 
She, with her poor blind hands- feel- 
ing — " where is it ? 
Where is it % " — You must fancy that 

which follow'd, 
If you have heart to do it! 

Crowd (in the distance). God save 

their Graces! 
Stafford. Their Graces, our dis- 
graces 1 God confound them J 



720 



QUEEN MARY. 



Why, she's grown bloodier ! when I 

last was here, 
This was against her conscience — 

would be murder ! 
Bagenhall. The " Thou shalt do no 

murder," which God's hand 
Wrote on her conscience, Mary rubb'd 

out pale — 
She could not make it white — and 

over that, 
Traced in the blackest text of Hell — 

" Thou shalt ! " 
And sign'd it — Mary ! 

Stafford. Philip and the Pope 
Must have sign'd too. I hear this 

Legate's coining 
To bring us absolution from the Pope. 
The Lords and Commons will bow 

down before him — 
You are of the house V what will you 

do, Sir Ralph ? 
Bagenhall. And why should I be 

bolder than the rest, 
Or honester than all ? 

Stafford. But, sir, if I — 

And oversea they say this state of 

yours 
Hath no more mortice than a tower of 

cards ; 
And that a puff would do it — then 

if I 
And others made that move I touch'd 

upon, 
Back'd by the power of France, and 

landing here, 
Came with a sudden splendor, shout, 

and show, 
And dazzled men and deafen'd by 

some bright 
Loud venture, and the people so un- 
quiet — 
And I the race of murder'd Bucking- 
ham — 
Not for myself, but for the kingdom 

— Sir, 
I trust that you would fight along 

with us. 
Bagenhall. No ; you would fling 

your lives into the gulf. 
Stafford. But if this Philip, as he's 

like to do, 
Left Mary a wife-widow here alone, 



Set up a viceroy, sent his myriads 

hither 
To seize upon the forts and fleet, and 

make us 
A Spanish province ; would you not 
fight then ? 
Bagenhall. I think I should fight 

then. 
Stafford. I am sure of it. 
Hist ! there's the face coming on here 

of one 
Who knows me. I must leave you. 

Fare you well, 
You'll hear of me again. 

Bagenhall. Upon the scaffold. 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE II.— Room in Whitehall 
Palace. 

Mary. Enter Philip and 
Cardinal Pole. 

Pole . Ave Maria, gratia plena,Bene- 

dicta tu in mulieribus. 
Mary. Loyal and royal cousin, 
humblest thanks. 

Had you a pleasant voyage up the 
river ? 
Pole. We had your royal barge, and 
that same chair, 

Or rather throne of purple, on the deck. 

Our silver cross sparkled before the 
prow, 

The ripples twinkled at their diamond- 
dance, 

The boats that f ollow'd, were as glow- 
ing-gay 

As regal gardens ; and your flocks of 
swans, 

As fair and white as angels ; and your 
shores 

Wore in mine eyes the green of Para- 
dise. 

My foreign friends, who dream'd us 
blanketed 

In everrclosing fog, were much amazed 

To find as fair a sun as might have 
flash'd 

Upon the^r lake of Garda, fire the 
Thames ; 

Our voyage by sea was all but miracle ; 



QUEEN MARY. 



721 



And here the river flowing from the 

sea, 
Not toward it (for they thought not 

of our tides), 
Seeni'd as a happy miracle to make 

glide — 
In quiet — home your banish'd coun- 
tryman. 
Mar : ,. We heard that you were 

sick in Flanders, cousin. 
Pole. A dizziness. 
Mary. And how came 

you round again ? 
Pole. The scarlet thread of llahab 

saved her life ; 
And mine, a little letting of the blood. 
Mary. Well ? now ? 
Pole. Ay, cousin, as 

the heathen giant 
Had but to touch the ground, his 

force return'd — 
Thus, after twenty years of banish- 
ment, 
Feeling my native land beneath my 

foot, 
I said thereto : " Ah, native land of 

mine, 
Thou art much beholden to this foot 

of mine, 
That hastes with full commission from 

the Pope 
To absolve thee from thy guilt of 

heresy. 
Thou hast disgraced me and attainted 

me, 
And mark'd me ev'n as Cain, and I 

return 
As Peter, but to bless thee : make me 

well." 
Methinks the good land heard me, 

for to-day 
My heart beats twenty, when I see 

you, cousin. 
Ah, gentle cousin, since your Herod's 

death, 
How oft hath Peter knock'd at Mary's 

gate ! 
And Mary would have risen and let 

him in, 
But, Mary, there were those within 

the house 
Who would not have it. 



Mary. True, good cousin Pole ; 

And there were also those without the 

house 
Who would not have it. 

Pole. I believe so, cousin. 

State-policy and church-policy are 

conjoint, 
But Janus-faces looking diverse ways. 
I fear the Emperor much misvalued 

me. 
But all is well ; 'twas ev'n the will of 

God, 
Who, waiting till the time had ripen'd, 

now, 
Makes me his mouth of holy greet- 
ing. " Hail, 
Daughter of God, and saver of the 

faith, 
Sit benedictus fructus ventris tui! " 
Mary. Ah, heaven ! 
Pole. Unwell, your Grace ? 

Mary. No, cousin, happy — 

Happy to see you ; never yet so happy 
Since I was crown'd. 

Pole. Sweet cousin, you forget 

That long low minster where you 

gave your hand 
To this great Catholic King. 

Philip. Well said, Lord Legate. 

Mary. Nay, not well said ; I thought 
of you my liege, 
Ev'n as I spoke. 

Philip. Ay, Madam; my Lord Paget 
Waits to present our Council to the 

Legate. 
Sit down here, all ; Madam, between 
us you. 
Pole. Lo, now you are enclosed 
with boards of cedar, 
Our little sister of the Song of Songs ! 
You are doubly fenced and shielded 

sitting here 
Between the two most high-set thrones 

on earth, 
The Emperor's highness happily sym- 
bolic by 
The King your husband, the Pope's 

Holiness 
By mine own self. 

Mary. True, cousin, I am happy. 
When will you that we summon both 
our houses 



722 



QUEEN MARY. 



To take this absolution from your lips, 

And be regather'd to the Papal fold ? 
Pole. In Britain's calendar the 
brightest day 

Beheld our rough forefathers break 
their Gods, 

And clasp the faith in Christ ; but 
after that 

Might not St. Andrew's be her hap- 
piest day ? 
Mary. Then these shall meet upon 
St. Andrew's day. 

Enter Paget, who presents the Council. 
Dumb show. 

Pole. I am an old man wearied with 
my journey, 
Ev'n with my joy. Permit me to with- 
draw. 
To Lambeth ? 

Philip. Ay, Lambeth has ousted 
Cranmer. 
It was not meet the heretic swine 

should live 
In Lambeth. 

Mary. There or anywhere, or at all. 
Philip. We have had it swept and 

garnish'd after him. 
Pole. Not for the seven devils to 

enter in ? 
Philip. No, for we trust they parted 

in the swine. 
Pole. True, and I am the Angel of 
the Pope. 
Farewell, your Graces. 

Philip. Nay, not here — to me ; 

I will go with you to the waterside. 
Pole. Not be my Charon to the 

counter side 1 
Philip. No, my Lord Legate, the 

Lord Chancellor goes. 
Pole. And unto no dead world ; but 
Lambeth palace, 
Henceforth a centre of the living faith. 
[Exeunt Philip, Pole, Paget, etc. 

Manet Mary. 

Mary. He hath awaked! he hath 
awaked ! 
He stirs within the darkness ! 



Oh, Philip, husband ! now thy love to 
mine 

Will cling more close, and those bleak 
manners thaw, 

That make me shamed and tongue- 
tied in my love. 

The second Prince of Peace — 

The great unborn defender of the 
Faith, 

Who will avenge me of mine ene- 
mies — 

He comes, and my star rises. 

The stormy Wyatts and Northumber- 
lands, 

The proud ambitions of Elizabeth, 

And all her fieriest partisans — are 
pale 

Before my star ! 

The light of this new learning wanes 
and dies : 

The ghosts of Luther and Zuinglius 
fade 

Into the deathless hell which is their 
doom 

Before my star ! 

His sceptre shall go forth from Ind 
to Ind ! 

His sword shall hew the heretic peo- 
ples down ! 

His faith shall clothe the world that 
will be his, 

Like universal air and sunshine ! Open, 

Ye everlasting gates ! The King is 
here ! — 

My star, my son ! 

Enter Philip, Duke of Alva, etc. 
Oh, Philip, come with me ; 
Good news have I to tell you, news to 

make 
Both of us happy — ay, the Kingdom 

too. 
Nay come with me — one moment ! 

Philip (to. Alva). More than that : 
There was one here of late — William 

the Silent 
They call him — he is free enough in 

talk, 
But tells me nothing. You will be, 

we trust, 
Sometime the viceroy of those 

provinces — 



QUEEN MARY. 



723 



He must deserve his surname better. 

Alva. Ay, sir; 

Inherit the Great Silence. 

Philip. True; the provinces 

Are hard to rule and must be hardly 

ruled ; 
Most fruitful, yet, indeed, an empty 

rind, 
All hoi low'd out with stinging heresies; 
And for their heresies, Alva, they will 

fight ; 
You must break them or they break 
you. 
Alva (proudli/). The first. 

Philip. Good! 
Well, Madam, this new happiness of 
mine ? [Exeunt. 

Enter Three Pages. 
First Page. News, mates! a miracle, 
a miracle ! news ! 
The bell must ring ; Te Deimis must 

be sung ; 
The Queen hath felt the motion of her 
babe ! 
Second Page. Ay ; but see here ! 
First Page. See what ? 

Second Page. This paper, Dickon. 
I found it fluttering at the palace 

gates : — 
"• The Queen of England is delivered 
of a dead dog ! " 
Third Page. These are the things 
that madden her. Fie upon it ! 
First Page. Ay ; but I hear she 
hath a dropsy, lad, 
)r a high-dropsy, as the doctors call it. 
Third Page. Fie on her dropsy, so 
she have a dropsy ! 
I know that she was ever sweet to me. 
First Page. For thou and thine are 

Roman to the core. 
Third Page. So thou and thine must 

be. Take heed ! 
First Page. Not I, 

And whether this flash of news be 

false or true, 
So the wine run, and there be revelry, 
Content am I. Let all the steeples 

clash, 
Till the sun dance, as upon Easter Day. 
[Exeunt. 



SCENE III. — Great Hall in 
Whitehall. 

At the Jar end a dais. On this three 
chairs, two under one canopy for Mary 
and Philip, another on the right of 
these for Pole. Under the dais on 
Pole's side, ranged along the wall, sit 
all the Spiritual Peers, and along the 
wall opposite, all the Temporal. The 
Commons on cross benches in front, a 
line of approach to the dais between 
them. In the foreground, Sir Ralph 
Bagenhall and other Members of 
the Commons. 

First Member. St. Andrew's day ; 

sit close, sit close, we are friends. 
Is reconciled the word 1 the Pope 

again ? 
It must be thus ; and yet, cocksbody ! 

how strange 
That Gardiner, once so one with allof us 
Against this foreign marriage, should 

have yielded 
So utterly ! — strange ! but stranger 

still that he, 
So fierce against the Headship of the 

Pope, 
Should play the second actor in this 

pageant 
That brings him in ; such a cameleon 

he! 
Second Member. This Gardiner 

turn'd his coat in Henry's time ; 
The serpent that hath slough'd will 

slough again. 
Third Member. Tut, then we all are 

serpents. 
Second Member. Speak for yourself. 
Third Member. Ay, and for Gar- 
diner ! being English citizen, 
How should he bear a bridegroom 

out of Spain 'i 
The Queen would have him ! being 

English churchman 
How should he bear the headship of 

the Pope ? 
The Queen would have it ! Statesmen 

that are wise 
Shape a necessity, as a sculptor clay, 
To their own model. 



724 



QUEEN MARY. 



Second Member. Statesmen that are 

wise 
Take truth herself for model. What 

say you ? [To Sir Ralph 

Bagenhall. 
Bagenhall. We talk and talk. 
First Member. Ay, and what use to 

talk? 
Philip's no sudden alien — the Queen's 

husband, 
He's here, and king, or will be — yet 

eoeksbody ! 
So hated here ! I watch'd a hive of 

late ; 
My seven-years' friend was with me, 

my young boy ; 
Out crept a wasp, with half the swarm 

behind. 
" Philip ! " says he. I had to cuff the 

rogue 
For infant treason. 

Third Member. But they say that 

bees, 
If any creeping life invade their hive 
Too gross to be thrust out, will build 

him round, 
And bind him in from harming of 

their combs. 
And Philip by these articles is bound 
From stirring hand or foot to wrong 

the realm. 
Second Member. By bonds of bees- 
wax, like your creeping thing ; 
But your wise bees had stung him first 

to death. 
Third Member. Hush, hush ! 
You wrong the Chancellor : the clauses 

added 
To that same treaty which the em- 
peror sent us 
Were mainly Gardiner's : that no for- 
eigner 
Hold office in the household, fleet, 

forts, army ; 
That if the Queen should die without 

a child, 
The bond between the kingdoms be 

dissolved ; 
That Philip should not mix us any way 
With his French wars — 

Second Member. Ay, ay, but what 

security, 



Good sir, for this, if Philip 

Third Member. Peace — the Queen, 
Philip, and Pole. [All rise, and stand. 

Enter Mary, Philip, and Pole. 

[Gardiner conducts them to the three 
chairs of state. Philip sits on the 
Queen's left, Pole on her right. 
Gardiner. Our short-lived sun, before 

his winter plunge, 
Laughs at the last red leaf, and An- 
drew's Day. 
Mary. Should not this day be held 
in after years 
More solemn than of old ? 

Philip. Madam, my wish 

Echoes your Majesty's. 

Pole. It shall be so. 

Gardiner. Mine echoes both your 
Graces' ; (aside) but the 
Pope — 
Can we not have the Catholic church 

as well 
Without as with the Italian ? if we 

cannot, 
Why then the Pope. 

My lords of the upper house, 
And ye, my masters, of the lower 

house, 
Do ye stand fast by that which ye re- 
solved ? 
Voices. We do. 

Gardiner. And be you all one mind 
to supplicate 
The Legate here for pardon, and ac- 
knowledge 
The primacy of the Pope % 

Voices. We are all one mind. 

Gardiner. Then must I play the 
vassal to this Pole. [Aside. 
[He draws a paper from under his 
robes and presents it to the King 
and Queen, who look through it 
and return it to him ; then as- 
cends a tribune, and reads. 
We, the Lords Spiritual and Tempo- 
ral, 
And Commons here in Parliament as- 
sembled, 
Presenting the whole body of this 
realm 



. 



QUEEN MARY. 



725 



Of England, and dominions of the 

same, 
Do make most humble suit unto your 

Majesties, 
In our own name and that of all the 

state, 
That by your gracious means and in- 
tercession 
Our supplication be exhibited 
To the Lord Cardinal Pole, sent here 

as Legate 
From our most Holy Father Julius, 

Pope, 
And from the Apostolic see of Rome ; 
And do declare our penitence and 

grief 
For our long schism and disobedience, 
Either in making laws and ordinances 
Against the Holy Father's primacy, 
Or else by doing or by speaking aught 
Which might impugn or prejudice the 

same ; 
By this our supplication promising, 
As well for our own selves as all the 

realm, 
That now we be and ever shall be 

quick, 
Under and with your Majesties' au- 
thorities, 
To do to the utmost all that in us lies 
Towards the abrogation and repeal 
Of all such laws and ordinances made ; 
Whereon we humbly pray your Maj- 
esties, 
As persons un defiled with our offence, 
So to set forth this humble suit of ours 
That we the rather by your interces- 
sion 
May from the Apostolic see obtain, 
Thro' this most reverend Father, ab- 
solution, 
And full release from danger of all 

censures 
Of Holy Church that we be fall'n into, 
So that we may, as children penitent, 
Be once again received into the bosom 
And unity of Universal Church ; 
And that this noble realm thro' after 

years 
May in this unity and obedience 
Unto the holy see and reigning Pope 
Serve God and both your Majesties. 



Voices. . Amen. [All sit. 

[He again presents the petition to 

the King and Queen, who hand 

it reverentially to Pole. 
Pole (sitting). This is the loveliest 

day that ever smiled 
On England. All her breath should, 

incenselike, 
Rise to the heavens in grateful praise 

of Him 
Who now recalls her to His ancient 

fold. 
Lo ! once again God to this realm 

hath given 
A token of His more especial Grace ; 
For as this people were the first of all 
The islands call'd into the dawning 

church 
Out of the dead, deep night of heath- 
endom, 
So now are these the first whom God 

hath given 
Grace to repent and sorrow for their 

schism ; 
And if your penitence be not mockery, 
Oh how the blessed angels who rejoice 
Over one saved do triumph at this hour 
In the reborn salvation of a land 
So noble. [A pause. 

For ourselves we do protest 
That our commission is to heal, not 

harm; 
We come not to condemn, but recon- 
cile ; 
We come not to compel, but call again ; 
We come not to destroy, but edify ; 
Nor yet to question things already 

done ; 
These are forgiven — matters of the 

past — 
And range with jetsam and with offal 

thrown 
Into the blind sea of forgetfulness. 

[A. pause. 
Ye have reversed the attainder laid 

on us 
By him who sack'd the house of God ; 

and we, 
Amplier than any field on our poor 

earth 
Can render thanks in fruit for being 

sown, 



726 



QUEEN MARY. 



Do here and now repay you sixty-fold, 
A hundred, yea, a thousand thousand- 
fold, 
With heaven for earth. 

{Rising and stretching forth his 
hands. All kneel but Sir Ralph 
Bagenhall, who rises and re- 
mains standing. 
The Lord who hath redeem'd us 
With His own blood, and wash'd us 

from our sins, 
To purchase for Himself a stainless 

bride ; 
He, whom the Father hath appointed 

Head 
Of all his church, He by His mercy 
absolve you ! {A pause. 

And we by that authority Apostolic 
Given unto us, his Legate, by the Pope, 
Our Lord and Holy Father, Julius, 
God's Vicar and Vicegerent upon 

earth, 
Do here absolve you and deliver you 
And every one of you, and all the 

realm 
And its dominions from all heresy, 
All schism, and from all and every 

censure, 
Judgment, and pain accruing there- 
upon ; 
And also we restore you to the bosom 
And unity of Universal Church. 

{Turning to Gardiner. 
Our letters of commission will declare 
this plainlier. 
[Queen heard sobbing. Cries of 
Amen ! Amen ! Some of the 
Members embrace one another. 
All but Sir Ralph Bagenhall 
pass out into the neighboring 
chapel, whence is heard the Te 
Deum. 
Bagenhall. We strove against the 
papacy from the first, 
In William's time, in our first Ed- 
ward's time, 
And in my master Henry's time ; but 

now, 
The unity of Universal Church, 
Mary would have it ; and this Gardi- 
ner follows ; 
The unity of Universal Hell, 



Philip would have it ; and this Gardi- 
ner follows ! 
A Parliament of imitative apes ! 
Sheep at the gap which Gardiner 

takes, who not 
Believes the Pope, nor any of them 

believe — 
These spaniel-Spaniard English of the 

time, 
Who rub their fawning noses in the 

dust, 
For that is Philip's gold-dust, and adore 
This Vicar of their Vicar. Would I 

had been 
Born Spaniard ! I had held my head 

up then. 
I am ashamed that I am Bagenhall, 
English. 

Enter Officer. 
Officer. Sir Ralph Bagenhall ! 
Bagenhall. What of that ? 

Officer. You were the one sole man 
in either house 
Who stood upright when both the 
houses fell. 
Bagenhall. The houses fell ! 
Officer. I mean the houses knelt 
Before the Legate. 

Bagenhall. Do not scrimp your 
phrase, 
But stretch it wider ; say when Eng- 
land fell. 
Officer. I say you were the one sole 

man who stood. 
Bagenhall. I am the one sole man 
in either house, 
Perchance in England, loves her like 
a son. 
Officer. Well, you one man, because 
you stood upright, 
Her Grace the Queen commands you 
to the Tower. 
Bagenhall. As traitor, or as heretic, 

or for what ? 
Officer. If any man in any way 
m would be 
The one man, he shall be so to his cost. 
Bagenhall. What! will she have 

my head ? 
Officer. A round fine likelier. 

Your pardon. {Galling to Attendant. 
By the river to the Tower. {Exeunt 



QUEEN MARY. 



727 



SCENE IV. — Whitehall. A Room 
in the Palace. 

Mary, Gardiner, Pole, Paget, 
Bonner, etc. 

Mar//. The King and I, my Lords, 

now that all traitors 
Against our royal state have lost the 

heads 
Wherewith they plotted in their trea- 
sonous malice, 
Have talk'd together, and are well 

agreed 
That those old statutes touching 

Lollard ism 
To bring the heretic to the stake, 

should be 
Xo longer a dead letter, but requick- 

en'd. 
One of the Council. Why, what hath 

fluster'd Gardiner 1 how he rubs 
His forelock ! 
Paget. I have changed a word with 

him 
In coming, and may change a word 

again. 
Gardiner. Madam, your Highness 

is our sun, the King 
And you together our two suns in one ; 
And so the beams of both may shine 

upon us, 
The faith that seem'd to droop will 

feel your light, 
Lift head, and flourish ; yet not light 

alone, 
There must be heat — there must be 

heat enough 
To scorcli and wither heresy to the 

root. 
For what saith Christ ? " Compel 

them to come in." 
And what saith Paul 1 "I would 

they were cut off 
That trouble you." Let the dead let- 
ter live ! 
Trace it in fire, that all the louts to 

whom 
Their A B C is darkness, clowns and 

grooms 
May read it ! so you quash rebellion 

too, 



For heretic and traitor are all one : 
Two vipers of one breed — an amphis- 

bocna, 
Each end a sting; Let the dead letter 

burn ! 
Paget. Yet there be some disloyal 

Catholics, 
And many heretics loyal; heretic 

throats 
Cried no God-bless-her to the Lady 

Jane, 
But shouted in Queen Mary. So there 

be 
Some traitor-heretic, there is axe and 

cord. 
To take the lives of others that are 

loyal, 
And by the churchman's pitiless doom 

of fire, 
Were but a thankless policy in the 

crown, 
Ay, and against itself ; for there are 

many. 
Mary. If we could burn out here- 
sy, my Lord Paget, 
We reck not tho' we lost this crown 

of England — 
Ay ! tho' it were ten En glands ! 

Gardiner. Eight, your Grace. 

Paget, you are all for this poor life of 

ours, 
And care but little for the life to 

be. 
Paget. I have some time, for curi- 

ousness, my Lord, 
Watch'd children playing at their life 

to be, 
And cruel at it, killing helpless flies ; 
Such is our time — all times for aught 

I know. 
Gardiner. We kill the heretics 

that sting the soul — 
They, with right reason, flies that 

prick the flesh. . 
Paget. They had not reach'd right 

reason ; little children ! 
They kilPd but for their pleasure and 

the power 
They felt in killing. 

Gardiner. A spice of Satan, ha ! 

Why, good! what then? granted! — 

we are fallen creatures ; 



728 



QUEEN MARY. 



Look to your Bible, Paget ! we are 

fallen. 
Paget. I am but of the laity, my 

Lord Bishop, 
And may not read your Bible, yet I 

found 
One day, a wholesome scripture, 

" Little children, 
Love one another." 

Gardiner. Did you find a scripture, 
" I come not to bring peace but a 

sword " ? The sword 
Is in her Grace's hand to smite with. 

Paget, 
You stand up here to fight for heresy, 
You are more than guess'd at as a 

heretic, 
And on the steep-up track of the true 

faith 
Your lapses are far seen. 

Paget. The faultless Gardiner ! 

Mary. You brawl beyond the ques- 
tion ; speak, Lord Legate ! 
Pole. Indeed, I cannot follow with 

your Grace : 
Rather would say — the shepherd 

doth not kill 
The sheep that wander from his flock, 

but sends 
His careful dog to bring them to the 

fold. 
Look to the Netherlands, wherein 

have been 
Such holocausts of heresy ! to what 

end? 
For yet the faith is not established 

there. 
Gardiner. The end's not come. 
Pole. No — nor this way 

will come, 
Seeing there lie two ways to every 

end, 
A better and a worse — the worse is 

here 
To persecute, because to persecute 
Makes a faith hated, and is further- 
more 
No perfect witness of a perfect faith 
In him who persecutes : when men are 

tost 
lOn tides of strange opinion, and not 

sure 



Of their own selves, they are wroth 

with their own selves, 
And thence with others; then, who 

lights the faggot? 
Not the full faith, no, but the lurking 

doubt. 
Old Rome, that first made martyrs in 

the Church, 
Trembled for her own gods, for these 

were trembling — 
But when did our Rome tremble ? 

Paget. Did she not 

In Henry's time and Edward's 1 

Pole. What, my Lord ! 

The Church on Peter's rock 1 never ! 

I have seen 
A pine in Italy that cast its shadow 
Athwart a cataract; firm stood the 

pine — 
The cataract shook the shadow. To 

my mind, 
The cataract typed the headlong 

plunge and fall 
Of heresy to the pit : the pine was 

Rome. 
You see, my Lords, 
It was the shadow of the Church that 

trembled ; 
Your church was but the shadow of a 

church ; 
Wanting the Papal mitre. 

Gardiner (muttering). Here be tropes. 
Pole. And tropes are good to clothe 

a naked truth, 
And make it look more seemly. 

Gardiner. Tropes again ! 

Pole. You are hard to please. Then 

without tropes, my Lord, 
An overmuch severeness, I repeat, 
When faith is wavering makes the 

waverer pass 
Into more settled hatred of the doc- 
trines 
Of those who rule, which hatred by 

and by 
Involves the ruler (thus there springs 

to light 
That Centaur of a monstrous Com- 
monweal, 
The traitor-heretic) then tho' some 

may quail, 






QUEEN MARY. 



729 



Yet others are that dare thestakeand 

fire, 

And their strong torment bravely 
borne, begets 

An admiration and an indignation, 

And hot desire to imitate; so the 
plague 

Of schism spreads ; were there but 
three or four 

( )f these misleaders, yet I would notsay 

Burn ! and we cannot burn whole 
towns; they are many, 

As my Lord Paget says. 

Gardiner. Yet my Lord Cardinal — 
Pole. I am your Legate ; please you 
let me finish. 

Methinks that under our Queen's 
regimen 

We might go softlier than with crim- 
son rowel 

And streaming lash. When Herod- 
Henry first 

Began to "batter at your English 
Church, 

This was the cause, and hence the 
judgment on her. 

She seethed with such adulteries, and 
the lives 

Of many among your churchmen were 
so foul 

That heaven wept and earth blush'd. 
I would advise 

That we should thoroughly cleanse 
the Church within 

Before these bitter statutes be requick- 
en'd. 

So after that when she once more is 
seen 

White as the light, the spotless bride 
of Christ, 

Like Christ himself on Tabor, pos- 
sibly 

The Lutheran may be won to her 
again ; 

Till when, my Lords, I counsel toler- 
ance. 
Gardirn r. What, if a mad dog bit 
your hand, my Lord, 

Would you not chop the bitten finger 
off, 

Lest your whole body should madden 
with the poison ? 



I would not, were 1 Queen, tolerate 

the heretic, 
No, not an hour. The ruler of a 

land 
Is bounden by his power and place to 

see 
His people be not poison 'd. Tolerate 

them ! 
Why ? do they tolerate you ? Nay, 

many of them 
Would burn — have burnt each other ; 

call they not 
The one true faith, a loathsome idol- 
worship ? 
Beware, Lord Legate, of a heavier 

crime 
Than heresy is itself ; beware, I say, 
Lest men accuse you of indifference 
To all faiths, all religion; for yon 

know 
Right well that you yourself have been 

supposed 
Tainted with Lutheranism it Italy. 
Pole {angered). But you, my Lord, 

beyond all supposition, 
In clear and open day were congruent 
With that vile Cranmer in the ac- 
cursed lie 
Of good Queen Catherine's divorce — 

the spring 
Of all those evils that have flow'd 

upon us ; 
For you yourself have truckled to the 

tyrant, 
And done your best to bastardize our 

Queen, 
For which God's righteous judgment 

fell upon you 
In your five years of imprisonment, 

my Lord, 
Under young Edward. Who so bol- 

ster'd up 
The gross King's headship of the 

Church, or more 
Denied the Holy Father ! 

Gardiner. Ha! what! eh? 

But you, my Lord, a polish'd gentle- 
man, 
A bookman, flying from the heat and 

tussle, 
You Lived among your vines and 

oranges, 



730 



QUEEN MARY. 



In your soft Italy yonder ! You were 

sent for, 
You were appeal'd to, but you still 

preferr'd 
Your learned leisure. As for what I 

did 
I suffer 'd and repented. You, Lord 

Legate 
And Cardinal-Deacon, have not now 

to learn 
That ev'n St. Peter in his time of fear 
Denied his Master, ay, and thrice, my 

Lord. 
Pole. But not for five-and-twenty 

years, my Lord. 
Gardiner. Ha ! good ! it seems then 

I was summon'd hither 
But to be mock'd and baited. Speak, 

friend Bonner, 
And tell this learned Legate he lacks 

zeal. 
The Church's evil is not as the 

King's, 
Cannot be heal'd by stroking. The 

mad bite 
Must have the cautery — tell him — 

and at once. 
What would'st thou do hadst thou his 

power, thou 
That layest so long in heretic bonds 

with me ; 
Would'st thou not burn and blast them 

root and branch 1 
Bonner. Ay, after you, my Lord. 
Gardiner. Nay, God's passion, be- 
fore me ! speak ! 
Bonner. I am on fire until I see 

them flame. 
Gardiner. Ay, the psalm-singing 

weavers, cobblers, scum — 
But this most noble prince Planta- 

genet, 
Our good Queen's cousin — dallying 

over seas 
Even when his brother's, nay, his 

noble mother's, 
Head fell — 

Pole. Peace, madman ! 

Thou stirrest up a grief thou canst 

not fathom. 
Thou Christian Bishop, thou Lord 

Chancellor 



Of England ! no more rein upon thine 
anger 

Than any child ! Thou mak'st me 
much ashamed 

ThatI was for a moment wroth at thee. 
Mary. I come for counsel and ye 
give me feuds, 

Like dogs that set to watch their mas- 
ter's gate, 

Eall, when the thief is ev'n within the 
walls, 

To worrying one another. My Lord 
Chancellor, 

You have an old trick of offending 
us; 

And but that you are art and part 
with us 

In purging heresy, well we might, for 
this 

Your violence and much roughness to 
the Legate, 

Have shut you from our counsels. 
Cousin Pole, 

You are fresh from brighter lands. 
Retire with me. 

His Highness and myself (so you 
allow us) 

Will let you learn in peace and pri- 
vacy 

What power this cooler sun of Eng- 
land hath 

In breeding godless vermin. And 
pray Heaven 

That you may see according to our 
sight. 

Come, cousin. 

[Exeunt Queen and Pole, etc. 
Gardiner. Pole has the Plantagenet 
face, 

But not the force made them our 
mightiest kings. 

Fine eyes — but melancholy, irreso- 
lute— 

A fine beard, Bonner, a very full fine 
beard. 

But a weak mouth, an indeterminate 
— ha? 
Bonner. Well, a weak mouth, per- 
chance. 
Gardiner. And not like thine 

To gorge a heretic whole, roasted or 
raw. 




Mucli suspected, of me 
Nothing proven can be/ 
Quoth Elizabeth, prisoner." 

Page 732. 



QUEEN MARY. 



731 



Bonner. I'd do my best, my Lord ; 

but yet the Legate 
Is here as Pope and Master of the 

Church, 
And if lie go not with you — 

Gard Tut. Master Bishop, 

Our bashful Legate, saw'st not bow lie 

flushed » 
Touch him upon bis old heretical 

talk, 
He'll burn a diocese to prove his or- 

thodoxy. 
And let him call me truckler. In 

tbose times, 
rhou knowest we bad to dodge, or 

duck, or die ; 
I kept my head for use of Holy 

Church ; 
And see you, we shall have to dodge 

again. 
And let the Pope trample our rights, 

and plunge 
His foreign fist into our island Church 
To plump the leaner pouch of Italy, 
For a time, for a time. 
Why 1 that these statutes may be put 

in force, 
And that his fan may thoroughly 

purge his floor. 
Bonner. So then you hold the 

Pope — 
Gardiner. I hold the Pope ! 

What do I hold him ? what do I hold 

the Pope 1 
Come., come, the morsel stuck — this 

Cardinal's fault — 
I have gulpt it down. I am wholly 

for the Pope, 
Utterly and altogether for the Pope, 
The Eternal Peter of the changeless 

chair, 
Crown'd slave of slaves, and mitred 

king of kings, 
God upon earth ! what more ? what 

would you have ? 

. let's be gone. 

/ . Usher. 

r. Well that you lit not gone, 
My lord. The Queen, most wroth a1 
first with you, 



Is now content to grant you full for- 
giveness, 
So that you crave full pardon of the 

Legate. 
I am sent to fetch you. 

Gardiner. Doth Pole yield, sir, 

ha! 
Did you hear 'em ? were you by ? 

Usher. I cannot tell you, 

His bearing is so courtly-delicate ; 
And yet methinks he falters : their 

two Graces 
Do so dear-cousin and royal-cousin 

him, 
So press on him the duty which as 

Legate 
He owes himself, and with such royal 

smiles — 
Gardiner. Smiles that burn men. 

Bonner, it will be carried. 
He falters, ha % 'fore God, we change 

and change ; 
Men now are bow'd and old, the doc- 
tors tell you, 
At three-score years ; then if we 

change at all 
We needs must do it quickly ; it is an 

age 
Of brief life, and brief purpose, and 

brief patience, 
As I have shown to-day. I am sorry 

for it 
If Pole be like to turn. Our old 

friend Cranmer, 
Your more especial love, hath turn'd 

so often, 
He knows not where he stands, which, 

if this pass, 
We two shall have to teach him ; let 

'em look to it, 
Cranmer and Hooper, Ridley and 

Latimer, 
Rogers and Ferrar, for their time is 

come, 
Their hour is hard at hand, their 

" dies Ira," 
Their " dies Ilia," which will test 

their sect. 
I feel it but a duty — you will find in 

it 
Pleasure as well as duty, worthy 

Bonner, — 



732 



QUEEN MARY, 



To test their sect. Sir, I attend the 

Queen 
To crave most humble pardon — of 

her most 
Royal, Infallible, Papal Legate-cousin, 
[Exeunt. 

SCENE V. — Woodstock. 

Elizabeth, Lady in Waiting. 

Elizabeth. So they have sent poor 

Courtenay over sea. 
Lady. And banish'd us to Wood- 
stock, and the fields. 
The colors of our Queen are green and 

white, 

These fields are only green, they make 

me gape. 

Elizabeth. There's whitethorn, girl. 

Lady. Ay, for an hour in May. 

But court is always May, buds out in 

masques, 
Breaks into feather'd merriments, and 

flowers 
In silken pageants. Why do they 

keep us here 1 
Why still suspect your Grace ? 

Elizabeth. Hard upon both. 

[ Writes on the window with a diamond. 

Much suspected, of me 
Nothing proven can be. 

Quoth Elizabeth, prisoner. 

Lady. What hath your Highness 

written ? 
Elizabeth. A true rhyme. 

Lady. Cut with a diamond ; so to 

last like truth. 
Elizabeth. Ay, if truth last. 
Lady. But truth, they say, will out, 
So it must last. It is not like a word, 
That comes and goes in uttering. 

Elizabeth. Truth, a word ! 

The very Truth and very Word are 

one. 
But truth of story, which I glanced 

at, girl, 
Is like a word that comes from olden 



And passes thro' the peoples : every 
tongue 



Alters it passing, till it spells and 
speaks 

Quite other than at first. 

Lady. I do not follow. 

Elizabeth, How many names in the 
long sweep of time 

That so foreshortens greatness, may 
but hang 

On the chance mention of some fool 
that once 

Brake bread with us v perhaps : and 
my poor chronicle 

Is but of glass. Sir Henry Beding- 
field 

May split it for a spite. 

Lady. God grant it last, 

And witness to your Grace's innocence, 

Till doomsday melt it. 

Elizabeth. Or a second fire, 

Like that which lately crackled under- 
foot 

And in this very chamber, fuse the glass, 

And char us back again into the dust 

We spring from. Never peacock 
against rain 

Scream'd as you did for water. 

Lady. And I got it, 

I woke Sir Henry — and he's true to 
you — 

I read his honest horror in his eyes. 
Elizabeth. Or true to you 1 
Lady. Sir Henry Bedingfield ! 

I will have no man true to me, your 
Grace, 

But one that pares his nails ; to me 1 
the clown ! 
Elizabeth. Out, girl! you wrong a 

noble gentleman. 
Lady. For, like his cloak, his man- 
ners want the nap 

And gloss of court ; but of this fire he 
says, 

Nay swears, it was no wicked wilful- 
ness, 

Only a natural chance. 

Elizabeth. A chance — perchance 

One of those wicked wilfuls that men 
make, 

Nor shame to call it nature. Nay, I 
know 

They hunt my blood. Save for my 
daily range 



QUEEN MARY. 



733 



Among the pleasant fields of Holy 

Writ 
I might despair. But there hath 

some one come ; 
The house is all in movement. Hence, 

and see. [Exit Lady. 

Milkmaid (singing without). 

Shame upon you, Robin, 

Shame upon you now ! 
Kis.s me would you? with my hands 

Milking the cow? 

Daisies grow again, 

Kinecups blow again, 
And you came and kiss'd me milking the cow. 

Robin came behind me, 

Kiss'd me well I vow; 
Cuff him could I? with my hands 

Milking the cow? 

Swallows fly again, 

Cuckoos cry again, 
And you came and kiss'd me milking the cow. 

Come, Robin, Robin, 

Come and kiss me now ; 
Help it can I? with my bands 

Milking the cow? 

Ringdoves coo again, 

All things woo again. 
Come behind and kiss me milking the cow ! 

Elizabeth. Right honest and red- 
cheek'd ; Robin was violent, 

And she was crafty — a sweet vio- 
lence, 

And a sweet craft. I would I were a 
milkmaid, 

To sing, love, marry, churn, brew, 
bake, and die, 

Then have my simple headstone by 
the church, 

And all things lived and ended hon- 
estly. 

I could not if I would. I am Harry's 
daughter : 

Gardiner would have my head. They 
are not sweet, 

The violence and the craft that do 
divide 

The world of nature ; what is weak 
must lie ; 

The lion needs but roar to guard his 
young; 

The lapwing lies, says " here " when 
they are there. 

Threaten the child ; " I'll scourge you 
if you did it : " 



What weapon hath the child, save his 

soft tongue, 
To say " I did not 1 " and my rod's the 

block. 
I never lay my head upon the pillow 
But that I think, " Wilt thou lie there 

to-morrow \ " 
How oft the falling axe, that never 

fell, 
Hath shock'd me back into the day- 
light truth 
That it may fall to-day ! Those 

damp, black, dead 
Nights in the Tower ; dead — with the 

fear of death 
Too dead ev'n for a death-watch ! 

Toll of a bell, 
Stroke of a clock, the scurrying of a 

rat 
Affrighted me, and then delighted me, 
For there was life — And there was 

life in death — 
The little murder'd princes, in a pale 

light, 
Rose hand in hand, and whisper'd, 

"come away! 
The civil wars are gone for ever- 
more : 
Thou last of all the Tudors, come 

away ! 
With us is peace!" The last? It 

was a dream ; 
I must not dream, not wink, but watch. 

She has gone, 
Maid Marian to her Robin — by and 

by 

Both happy ! a fox may filch a hen by 

night, 
And make a morning outcry in the 

yard; 
But there's no Renard here to " catch 

her tripping." 
Catch me who can ; yet, sometime 1 

have wish'd 
That I were caught, and kill'd away 

at once 
Out of the flutter. The gray rogue, 

Gardiner. 
Went on his knees, and pray'd me to 

confess 
In Wyatt's business, and to cast my- 
self 



734 



QUEEN MARY. 



Upon the good Queen's mercy ; ay, 

when, my Lord % 
God save the Queen ! My jailor — 

Enter Sir Henry Bedingfield. 

Bedingfield. One, whose bolts, 

That jail you from free life, bar you 

from death. 
There haunt some Papist ruffians 

here about 
Would murder you. 

Elizabeth. I thank you heartily, sir, 
But I am royal, tho' your prisoner, 
And God hath blest or cursed me with 

a nose — 
Your boots are from the horses. 

Bedingfield. Ay, my Lady. 

When next there comes a missive 

from the Queen 
It shall be all my study for one hour 
To rose and lavender my horsiness, 
Before I dare to glance upon your 

Grace. 
Elizabeth. A missive from the 

Queen: last time she wrote, 
I had like to have lost my life : it 

takes my breath : 
O God, sir, do you look upon your 

boots, 
Are you so small a man 1 Help me : 

what think you, 
Is it life or death % 

Bedingfield. I thought not on my 

boots ; 
The devil take all boots were ever 

made 
Since man went barefoot. See, I lay 

it here, 
For I will come no nearer to your 

Grace ; 

\_Laying down the letter. 
And, whether it bring you bitter news 

or sweet, 
And God hath given your grace a 

nose, or not, 
I'll help you, if I may. 

Elizabeth. Your pardon, then ; 

It is the heat and narrowness of the 

cage 
That makes the captive testy ; with 

free wing 



The world were all one Araby. Leave 

me now, 
Will you, companion to myself, sir? 

Bedingfield. Will I ? 

With most exceeding willingness, I 

will; 
You know I never come till I be call'd. 

[Exit. 
Elizabeth. It lies there folded: is 

there venom in it 1 
A snake — and if I touch it, it may 

sting. 
Come, come, the worst ! 
Best wisdom is to know the worst at 

once. [Reads : 

"It is the King's wish, that 
you should wed Prince Philibert of 
Savoy. You are to come to Court on 
the instant ; and think of this in your 
coming. 

"Mary the Queen." 

Think ! I have many thoughts ; 

I think there may be birdlime here for 

me; 
I think they fain would have me from 

the realm ; 
I think the Queen may never bear a 

child ; 
I think that I may be some time the 

Queen, 
Then, Queen indeed : no foreign prince 

or priest 
Should fill my throne, myself upon 

the steps. 
I think I will not marry anyone, 
Specially not this landless Philibert 
Of Savoy ; but, if Philip menace me, 
I think that I will play with Phili- 
bert, — 
As once the Holy Father did with 

mine, 
Before my father married my good 

mother, — 
For fear of Spain. 

Enter Lady. 

Lady. O Lord ! your Grace, your 
Grace, 
I feel so happy : it seems that we shall 

fly 



QUEEN MARY. 



735 



These bald, blank fields, and dance 

into the sun 
That shines on princes. 

Elizabeth. Yet, a moment since, 

I wish'd myself the milkmaid singing 

here, 
To kiss and cuff among the birds and 

flowers — 
A right rough life and healthful. 

Lady. But the wench 

Hath her own troubles ; she is weep- 
ing now ; 
For the wrong Robin took her at her 

word. 
Then the cow kick'd, and all her milk 

was spilt. 
Your highness such a milkmaid ? 

Elizabeth. I had kept 

My Robins and my cows in sweeter 

order 
Had I been such. 
Lady (slyly). And had your Grace 

a Robin 1 
Elizabeth. Come, come, you are 

chill here; you want the sun 
That shines at court ; make ready for 

the journey. 
Pray God, we 'scape the sunstroke. 

Ready at once. [Exeunt. 



SCENE VI. — London. A Room in 
the Palace. 

Lord Petre and Lord William 
Howard. 

Petre. You cannot see the Queen. 

Renard denied her, 
Ev'n now to me. 

Howard. Their Flemish go-between 
And all-in-all. I came to thank her 

Majesty 
For freeing my friend Bagenhall 

from the Tower ; 
A grace to me ! Mercy, that herb-of- 

grace, 
Flowers now but seldom. 

Petre. Only now perhaps. 

Because the Queen hath been three 

days in tears 
For Philip's going — like the wild 

hedge-rose 



Of a soft winter, possible, not prob- 
able, 
However you have prov'n it. 

Howard. I must see her. 

Enter Renard. 

Renard. My Lords, you cannot see 

her Majesty. 
Howard. Why then the King ! for 

I would have him bring it 
Home to the leisure wisdom of his 

Queen, 
Before he go, that since these statutes 

past, 
Gardiner out-Gardiners Gardiner in 

his heat, 
Bonner cannot out-Bonner his own 

self — 
Beast ! — but they play with fire as 

children do, 
And burn the house. I know that 

these are breeding 
A fierce resolve and fixt heart-hate in 

men 
Against the King, the Queen, the 

Holy Father, 

The faith itself. Can I not see him ? 

Renard. Not now. 

And in all this, my Lord, her Majesty 

Is flint of flint, you may strike fire 

from her, 
Not hope to melt her. I will give 

your message. 

[Exeunt Petre and Howard. 

Enter Philip (musing). 

Philip. She will not have Prince 
Philibert of Savoy, 

I talk'd with her in vain — says she 
will live 

And die true maid — a goodly crea- 
ture too. 

Would she had been the Queen ! yet 
she must have him ; 

She troubles England : that she 
breathes in England 

Is life and lungs to every rebel birth 

That passes out of embryo. 

Simon Renard ! — 

This Howard, whom they fear, what 
was he saying 1 



736 



QUEEN MARY. 



Renard. What your imperial father 

said, my liege, 
To deal with heresy gentlier. Gardi- 
ner burns, 
And Bonner burns ; and it would seem 

this people 
Care more for our brief life in their 

wet land, 
Than yours in happier Spain. I told 

my Lord 
He should not vex her Highness ; she 

would say 
These are the means God works with, 

that His church 
May flourish. 

Philip. Ay, sir, but in statesmanship 
To strike too soon is oft to miss the 

blow. 
Thou knowest I bade my chaplain, 

Castro, preach 
Against these burnings. 

Renard. And the Emperor 

Approved you, and when last he wrote, 

declared 
His comfort in your Grace that you 

were bland 
And affable to men of all estates, 
In hope to charm them from their 

hate of Spain. 
Philip. In hope to crush all heresy 

under Spain. 
But, Renard, I am sicker staying here 
Than any sea could make me passing 

hence, 
Tho' I be ever deadly sick at sea. 
So sick am I with biding for this child. 
Is it the fashion in this clime for 

women 
To go twelve months in bearing of a 

child ? 
The nurses yawn'd, the cradle gaped, 

they led 
Processions, chanted litanies, clash'd 

their bells, 
Shot off their lying cannon, and her 

priests 
Have preach'd, the fools, of this fair 

prince to come ; 
Till, by St. James, I find myself the 

fool. 
Why do you lift your eyebrow at me 

thus? 



Renard. I never saw your Highness 

moved till now. 
Philip. So weary am I of this wet 
land of theirs, 
And every soul of man that breathes 
therein. 
Renard. My liege, we must not 
drop the mask before 
The masquerade is over — 

Philip. — Have I dropt it 1 

I have but shown a loathing face to 

you, 
Who knew it from the first. 

Enter Mary. 
Mary (aside). With Renard. Still 
Parleying with Renard, all the day 

with Renard, 
And scarce a greeting all the day for 

me — 
And goes to-morrow. [Exit Mary. 
Philip (to Renard, who advances to 
him). Well, sir, is there more ? 
Renard (ivho has perceived the Queen). 
May Simon Renard speak a 
single word ? 
Philip. Ay. 

Renard. And be forgiven for it ? 
Philip. Simon Renard 

Knows me too well to speak a single 

word 
That could not be forgiven. 

Renard. Well, my liege, 

Your Grace hath a most chaste and 
loving wife. 
Philip. Why not ? The Queen of 

Philip should be chaste. 
Renard. Ay, but, my Lord, you 
know what Virgil sings, 
Woman is various and most mutable. 
Philip. She play the harlot ! never. 
Renard. No, sire, no, 

Not dream'd of by the rabidest gos- 
peller. 
There was a paper thrown into the 

palace, 
" The King hath wearied of his bar- 
ren bride." 
She came upon it, read it, and then rent 

it, 
With all the rage of one who hates a 
truth 



QUEEN MARY. 



737 



He cannot but allow. Sire, I would 
have you — 

What should I say, I cannot pick my 
words — 

Be somewhat less — majestic to your 
Queen. 
Philip. Am I to change my man- 
ners, Simon Kenard, 

Because these islanders are brutal 
beasts ? 

Or would you have me turn a son- 
neteer, 

And warble those brief-sighted eyes 
of hers ? 
Renard. Brief-sighted tho' they be, 
I have seen them, sire, 

When you perchance were trifling 
royally 

With some fair dame of court, sud- 
denly fill 

With such fierce fire — had it been 
fire indeed 

It would have burnt both speakers. 
Philip. Ay, and then ? 

Renard. Sire, might it not be policy 
in some matter 

Of small importance now and then to 
cede 

A point to her demand ? 

Philip. Well, I am going. 

Renard. For should her love when 
you are gone, my liege, 

Witness these papers, there will not 
be wanting 

Those that will urge her injury — 
should her love — 

And I have known such women more 
than one — 

Veer to the counterpoint, and jeal- 
ousy 

Hath in it an alchemic force to fuse 

Almost into one metal loveandhate, — 

And she impress her wrongs upon her 
Council, 

And these again upon her Parlia- 
ment — 

We are not loved here, and would be 
then perhaps 

Not so well holpen in our wars with 
France, 

As else we might be — here she comes. 



Enter Mary. 
Mary. O Philip J 

Nay, must you go indeed ? 

Philip. Madam, I must. 

Mary. The parting of a husband 
and a wife 
Is like the cleaving of a heart ; one half 
Will flutter here, one there. 

Philip. You say true, Madam. 

Mart/. The Holy Virgin will not 
have me yet 
Lose the sweet hope that I may bear 

a prince. 
If such a prince were born and you 
not here ! 
Philip. I should be here if such a 

prince were born. 
Mary. But must you go ? 
Philip. Madam, you know my fa- 
ther, 
Retiring into cloistral solitude 
To yield the remnant of his years to 

heaven, 
Will shift the yoke and weight of all 

the world 
From off his neck to mine. We meet 

at Brussels. 
But since mine absence will not be for 

long, 
Your Majesty shall go to Dover with 

me, 
And wait my coming back. 

Mary. To Dover ? no, 

I am too feeble. I will go to Green- 
wich, 
So you will have me with you ; and 

there watch 
All that is gracious in the breath of 

heaven 
Draw with your sails from our poor 

land, and pass 
And leave me, Philip, with my prayers 
for you. 
Philip. And doubtless I shall profit 

by your prayers. 
Mary. Methinks that would you 
tarry one day more 
! (The news was sudden) I could mould 

myself 
i To bear your f;oing better; will you 
I doit? 



738 



QUEEN MARY. 



Philip. Madam, a day may sink or 

save a realm. 
Mary. A day may save a heart 

from breaking too. 
Philip. Well, Simon Eenard, shall 

we stop a day ? 
Renard. Your Grace's business will 

not suffer, sire, 
For one day more, so far as I can tell. 
Philip. Then one day more to please 

her Majesty. 
Mary. The sunshine sweeps across 

my life again. 

if I knew you felt this parting, 

Philip, 

As I do ! 

Philip. By St. James I do protest, 

Upon the faith and honor of a Span- 
iard, 

1 am vastly grieved to leave your 

Majesty. 
Simon, is supper ready ? 

Eenard. Ay, my liege, 

I saw the covers laying. 

Philip. Let us have it. [Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. — A Room in the Palace. 

Mary, Cardinal Pole. 

Mary. What have you there ? 
Pole. So please your Majesty, 

A long petition from the foreign 
exiles 

To spare the life of Cranmer. Bishop 
Thirlby, 

And my Lord Paget and Lord Wil- 
liam Howard, 

Crave, in the same cause, hearing of 
your Grace. 

Hath he not written himself — in- 
fatuated — 

To sue you for his life % 

Mary. His life 1 Oh, no ; 

Not sued for that — he knows it were 
in vain. 

But so much of the anti-papal leaven 

Works in him yet, he hath pray'd me 
not to sully 



Mine own prerogative, and degrade 

the realm 
By seeking justice at a stranger's 

hand 
Against my natural subject. King 

and Queen, 
To whom he owes his loyalty after 

God, 
Shall these accuse him to a foreign 

prince 1 
Death would not grieve him more. I 

cannot be 
True to this realm of England and 

the Pope 
Together, says the heretic. 

Pole. And there errs ; 

As he hath ever err'd thro' vanity. 
A secular kingdom is but as the body 
Lacking a soul ; and in itself a beast. 
The Holy Father in a secular kingdom 
Is as the soul descending out of 

heaven 
Into a body generate. 
Mary. Write to him, then. 

Pole. I will. 

Mary. And sharply, Pole. 

Pole. Here come the Cranmerites ! 



Enter Thirlby, Lord Paget, Lord 
William Howard. 

Howard. Health to your Grace ! 
Good morrow, my Lord Cardi- 
nal; 
We make our humble prayer unto 

your Grace 
That Cranmer may withdraw to 

foreign parts, 
Or into private life within the realm. 
In several bills and declarations, 

Madam, 
He hath recanted all his heresies. 
Paget. Ay, ay ; if Bonner have not 
forged the bills. [Aside. 

Mary. Did not More die, and 

Fisher 1 he must burn. 
Howard. He hath recanted, Madam. 
Mary. The better for him. 

He burns in Purgatory, not in Hell. 
Howard. Ay, ay, your Grace ; but 
it was never seen 
That any one recanting thus at full, 



QUEEN MARY. 



739 



As Cranmer hath, came to the fire on 

earth. 
Mary. It will be seen now, then. 
Thirlby. Madam, Madam ! 

I thus implore you, low upon my 

knees, 
To reach the hand of mercy to my 

friend. 
I have err'd with him ; with him I have 

recanted. 
What human reason is there why my 

friend 
Should meet with lesser mercy than 

myself ? 
Mary. My Lord of Ely, this. After 

a riot 
We hang the leaders, let their follow- 
ing go. 
Cranmer is head and father of these 

heresies, 
New learning as they call it ; yea, may 

God 
Forget me at most need when I for- 
get 
Her foul divorce — my sainted mother 

— • No ! — 
Howard. Ay, ay, but mighty doctors 

doubted there. 
The Pope himself waver'd ; and more 

than one 
Row'd in that galley — Gardiner to 

wit, 
Whom truly I deny not to have been 
Your faithful friend and trusty coun- 
cillor. 
Hath not your Highness ever read his 

book, 
His tractate upon True Obedience, 
Writ by himself and Bonner ? 

Mary. I will take 

Such order with all bad, heretical 

books 
That none shall hold them in his 

house and live, 
Henceforward. No, my Lord. 

Howard. Then never read it. 

The truth is here. Your father was 

a man 
Of such colossal kinghood, yet so 

courteous, 
Except when wroth, you scarce could 

meet his eye 



And hold your own; and were he 

wroth indeed, 
You held it less, or not at all. I say, 
Your father had a will that beat men 

down ; 
Your father had a brain that beat 
men down — 
Pole. Not me, my Lord. 
Howard. No, for you were not here ; 
You sit upon this fallen Cranmer's 

throne ; 
And it would more become you, my 

Lord Legate, 
To join a voice, so potent with her 

Highness, 
To ours in plea for Cranmer than to 

stand 
On naked self-assertion. 

Mary. All your voices 

Are waves on flint. The heretic must 

burn. 
Hoivard. Yet once he saved your 

Majesty's own life ; 
Stood out against the King in your 

behalf, 
At his own peril. 

Mary. I know not if he did ; 

And if he did I care not, my Lord 

Howard. 
My life is not so happy, no such 

boon, 
That I should spare to take a heretic 

priest's, 
Who saved it or not saved. Why do 

you vex me 1 
Paget. Yet to save Cranmer were 

to serve the Church, 
Your Majesty's I mean; he is effaced, 
Self-blotted out ; so wounded in his 

honor, 
He can but creep down into some dark 

hole 
Like a hurt beast, and hide himself 

and die ; 
But if you burn him, — well, your 

Highness knows 
The saying, " Martyr's blood — seed 

of the Church." 
Mary. Of the true Church ; but his 

is none, nor will be. 
You are too politic for me, my Lord 

Paget. 



740 



QUEEN MARY. 



A.nd if he have to live so loath'd a 

life, 
It were more merciful to burn him 
now. 
Thirlby. yet relent. O, Madam, 
if you knew him 
As I do, ever gentle, and so gracious, 
With all his learning — 

Mary. Yet a heretic still. 

His learning makes his burning the 
more just. 
Thirlby. So worshipt of all those 
that came across him ; 
The stranger at his hearth, and all his 
house — 
Mary. His children and his concu- 
bine, belike. 
Thirlby. To do him any wrong was 
to beget 
A kindness from him, for his heart 

was rich, 
Of such fine mould, that if you sow'd 

therein 
The seed of Hate, it blossom'd Charity. 
Pole. " After his kind it costs him 
nothing/' there's 
An old world English adage to the 

point. 
These are but natural graces, my 

good Bishop, 
Which in the Catholic garden are as 

flowers, 
But on the heretic dunghill only weeds. 
Howard. Such weeds make dung- 
hills gracious. 
Mary. Enough, my Lords. 

It is God's will, the Holy Father's will, 
And Philip's will, and mine, that he 

should burn. 
He is pronounced anathema. 

Howard. Earewell, Madam, 

God grant you ampler mercy at your 

call 
Than you have shown to Cranmer. 

[Exeunt Lords. 
Pole. After this, 

Your Grace will hardly care to over- 
look 
This same petition of the foreign exiles 
For Cranmer's life. 

Mary. Make out the writ to-night. 
[Exeunt. 



SCENE II. — Oxford. Cranmer in 
Prison. 

Cranmer. Last, night, I dream'd the 

faggots were alight, 
And that myself was fasten'd to the 

stake, 
And found it all a visionary flame, 
Cool as the light in old decaying wood ; 
And then King Harry look'd from 

out a cloud, 
And bade me have good courage ; 

and I heard 
An angel cry " There is more joy in 

Heaven," — 
And after that, the trumpet of the 

dead. 

[Trumpets without. 
Why, there are trumpets blowing 

now : what is it ? 



Enter Father Cole. 

Cole. Cranmer, I come to question 

you again ; 
Have you remain'd in the true Cath- 
olic faith 
I left you in 1 

Cranmer. In the true Catholic 

faith, 
By Heaven's grace, I am more and 

more confirm'd. 
Why are the trumpets blowing, Father 

Cole? 
Cole. Cranmer, it is decided by the 

Council 
That you to-day should read your 

recantation 
Before the people in St. Mary's 

Church. 
And there be many heretics in the 

town, 
Who loathe you for your late return 

to Rome, 
And might assail you passing through 

the street, 
And tear you piecemeal : so you have 

a guard. 
Cranmer. Or seek to rescue me. I 

thank the Council. 
Cole. Do you lack any money ? 



OUEEN MARY. 



741 



Cranmer. Nay, why should I ? 

The prison fare is good enough for me. 
Cole. Ay, but to give the poor 
Cranmer. Hand it me, then ! 

1 thank you. 

Cole. For a little space, farewell; 
Until I see you in St. Mary's Church. 
[Exit Cole. 
Cranmer. It is against all prece- 
dent to burn 
One who recants ; they mean to par- 
don me. 
To give the poor — they give the poor 

who die. 
Well, burn me or not burn me I am 

fixt; 
It is but a communion, not a mass : 
A holy supper, not a sacrifice ; 
No man can make his Maker — Villa 
Garcia. 

Enter Villa Garcia. 

Villa Garcia. Pray you write out 

this paper for me, Cranmer. 
Cranmer. Have I not writ enough 

to satisfy you 1 
Villa Garcia. It is the last. 
Cranmer. Give it me, then. 

\_He writes. 
Villa Garcia. Now sign. 

Cranmer. I have sign'd enough, 

and I will sign no more. 
Villa Garcia. It is no more than 
what you have sign'd already, 
The public form thereof. 

Cranmer. It may be so ; 

I sign it with my presence, if I read it. 

Villa Garcia. But this is idle of 

you. Well, sir, well, 

You are to beg the people to pray for 

you ; 
Exhort them to a pure and virtuous 

life ; 
Declare the Queen's right to the 

throne ; confess 
Your faith before all hearers ; and 

retract 
That Eucharistic doctrine in your 

book. 
Will you not sign it now 1 

Cranmer, No, Villa Garcia, 



I sign no more. Will they have mercy 

on me ? 
Villa Garcia. Have you goon" hopes 

of mercy ! So farewell. [Exit. 
Cranmer. Good hopes, not theirs, 

have I that I am fixt, 
Fixt beyond fall ; however, in strange 

hours, 
After the long brain-dazing colloquies, 
And thousand-times recurring argu- 
ment 
Of those two friars ever in my prison, 
When left alone in my despondency, 
Without a friend, a book, my faith 

would seem 
Dead or half-drown'd, or else swam 

heavily 
Against the huge corruptions of the 

Church, 
Monsters of mistradition, old enough 
To scare me into dreaming, " what 

am I, 
Cranmer, against whole ages 1 " was 

it so, 
Or am I slandering my most inward 

friend, 
To veil the fault of my most outward 

foe — 
The soft and tremulous coward in the 

flesh'? 

higher, holier, earlier, purer church, 

1 have found thee and not leave thee 

any more. 
It is but a communion, not a mass — 
No sacrifice, but a life-giving feast ! 
( Writes.) So, so; this will I say — 

thus will I pray. [Puts up the 

paper. 

Enter Bonner. 

Bonner. Good day, old friend; 
what, you look somewhat worn ; 

And yet it is a day to test your health 

Ev'n at the best : I scarce have spoken 
with you 

Since when ? — your degradation . At 
your trial 

Never stood up a bolder man than 
you ; 

You would not cap the Tope's com- 
missioner — 



742 



QUEEN MARY. 



Your learning, and your stoutness, 

and your heresy, 
Dumbfounded half of us. So, after 

that, 
We had to dis-archbishop and unlord, 
And make you simple Cranmer once 

again. 
The common barber dipt your hair, 

and I 
Scraped from your finger-points the 

holy oil ; 
And worse than all, you had to kneel 

to me; 
Which was not pleasant for you, 

Master Cranmer. 
Now you, that would not recognize 

the Pope, 
And you, that would not own the Real 

Presence, 
Have found a real presence in the 

stake, 
Which frights you back into the an- 
cient faith ; 
And so you have recanted to the Pope. 
How are the mighty fallen, Master 

Cranmer ! 
Cranmer. You have been more 

fierce against the Pope than I; 
But why fling back the stone he strikes 

me with ? [ Aside. 

Bonner, if I ever did you kindness — 
Power hath been given you to try 

faith by fire — 
Pray you, remembering how yourself 

have changed, 
Be somewhat pitiful, after I have 

gone, 
To the poor flock — to women and to 

children — 
That when I was archbishop held with. 

me. 
Bonner. Ay — gentle as they call 

you — live or die ! 
Pitiful to this pitiful heresy ? 

1 must obey the Queen and Council, 

man. 

Win thro' this day with honor to your- 
self, 

And I'll say something for you — so 
— good-bye. {Exit. 

Cranmer. This hard coarse man of 
old hath crouch'd to me 



Till I myself was half ashamed for 
him. 

Enter Thirlby. 

Weep not, good Thirlby. 

Thirlby. Oh, my Lord, my Lord ! 
My heart is no such block as Bonner's 

is : 
Who would not weep ? 

Cranmer. Why do you so my-lord 

me, 
Who am disgraced ? 

Thirlby. On earth ; but saved in 

heaven 
By your recanting. 

Cranmer. Will they burn me, 

Thirlby ? 
Thirlby. Alas, they will ; these 

burnings will not help' 
The purpose of the faith ; but my poor 

voice 
Against them is a whisper to the roar 
Of a spring-tide. 

Cranmer. And they will surely 

burn me 1 
Thirlby. Ay ; and besides, will have 

you in the church 
Repeat your recantation in the ears 
Of all men, to the saving of their 

souls, 
Before your execution. May God 

help you 
Thro' that hard hour ! 

Cranmer. And may God bless you, 
* Thirlby! 
Well, they shall hear my recantation 

there. [Exit Thirlby. 

Disgraced, dishonor'd ! — not by them, 

indeed, 
By mine own self — by mine own 

hand! 
thin-skinn'd hand and jutting veins, 

'twas you 
That sign'd the burning of poor Joan 

of Kent; 
But then she was a witch. You have 

written much, 
But you were never raised to plead 

for Frith, 
Whose dogmas I have reach' d : he 

was deliver'd 



QUEEN MARY. 



743 



To the secular arm to burn ; and there 

was Lambert ; 
Who can foresee himself ? truly these 

burnings, 
As Thirlby says, are profitless to the 

burners, 
And help the other side. You shall 

burn too, 
Burn first when I am burnt. 
Fire — inch by inch to die in agony ! 

Latimer 
Had a brief end — not Ridley. 

Hooper burn'd 
Three-quarters of an hour. Will my 

faggots 
Be wet as his were 1 It is a day of 

rain. 
I will not muse upon it. 
My fancy takes the burner's part, and 

makes 
The fire seem even crueller than it 

is. 
No, I not doubt that God will give 

me strength, 
Albeit I have denied him. 

Enter Soto and Villa Garcia. 

Villa Garcia. We are ready 

To take you to St. Mary's, Master 

Cranmer. 

Cranmer. And I : lead on ; ye loose 

me from my bonds. [Exeunt. 

SCENE III. — St. Mary's Church. 

Cole in the Pulpit, Lord Williams 
of Thame presiding. Lord Wil- 
liam Howard, Lord Paget, and 
others. Cranmer enters between 
Soto and Villa Garcia, and the 
whole Choir strike uj> " Nunc Dimit- 
tis." Cranmer is set upon a Scaf- 
fold before the people. 

Cole. Behold him — 

[A pause : people in the foreground. 

People. Oh, unhappy sight ! 

First Protestant. Sec how the tears 

run down his fatherly face. 
Second Protestant. James, didst thou 

ever see a carrion crow 



Stand watching a sick beast before he 

dies ? 
First Protestant. Him perch'd up 

there ? I wish some thunder- 
bolt 
Would make this Cole a cinder, pulpit 

and all. 
Cole. Behold him, brethren : he 

hath cause to weep ! — 
So have we all : weep with him if ye 

will, 

Yet 

It is expedient for one man to die, 
Yea, for the people, lest the people 

die. 
Yet wherefore should he die that hath 

return'd 
To the one Catholic Universal Church, 
Repentant of his errors ? 

Protestant murmurs. Ay, tell us 

that. 
Cole. Those of the wrong side will 

despise the man, 
Deeming him one that thro' the fear 

of death 
Gave up his cause, except he seal his 

faith 
In sight of all with flaming martyr- 
dom. 
Cranmer. Ay. 
Cole. Ye hear him, and albeit there 

may seem 
According to the canons pardon due 
To him that so repents, yet are there 

causes 
Wherefore our Queen and Council at 

this time 
Adjudge him to the death. He hath 

been a traitor, 
A shaker and confounder of the 

realm ; 
And when the King's divorce was 

sued at Rome, 
He here, this heretic metropolitan, 
As if he had been the Holy Father, 

sat 
And judged it. Did I call him 

heretic 1 
A huge heresiarch ! never was it 

known m 

That any man so writing, preaching 

so, 



744 



QUEEN MARY. 



So poisoning the Church, so long con- 
tinuing, 

Hath found his pardon ; therefore he 
must die, 

For warning and example. 

Other reasons 

There be for this man's ending, which 
our Queen 

And Council at this present deem it 
not 

Expedient to be known. 

Protestant murmurs. I warrant you. 
Cole. Take therefore, all, example 
by this man, 

For if our Holy Queen not pardon him, 

Much less shall others in like cause 
escape, 

That all of you, the highest as the 
lowest, 

May learn there is no power against 
the Lord. 

There stands a man, once of so high 
degree, 

Chief prelate of our Church, arch- 
bishop, first 

In Council, second person in the 
realm, 

Friend for so long time of a mighty 
King; 

And now ye see downfallen and de- 
based 

From councillor to caitiff — fallen so 
low, 

The leprous flutterings of the byway, 
scum 

And offal of the city would not 
change 

Estates with him; in brief, so miser- 
able, 

There is no hope of better left for him, 

No place for worse. 

Yet, Cranmer, be thou glad. 

This is the work of God. He is glori- 
fied 

In thy conversion : lo ! thou art re- 
claimed ; 

He brings thee home : nor fear but 
that to-day 

Thou shalt receive the penitent thief's 
* award, . 

And be with Christ the Lord in Para- 
dise. 



Remember how God made the fierce 

fire seem 
To those three children like a pleas- 
ant dew. 
Remember, too, 
The triumph of St. Andrew on his 

cross, 
The patience of St. Lawrence in the 

fire. 
Thus, if thou call on God and all the 

saints, 
God will beat down the fury of the 

flame, 
Or give thee saintly strength to under- 
go. 
And for thy soul shall masses here be 

sung 
By every priest in Oxford. Pray for 

him. 
Cranmer. Ay, one and all, dear 

brothers, pray for me ; 
Pray with one breath, one heart, one 

soul for me. 
Cole. And now, lest anyone among 

you doubt 
The man's conversion and remorse of 

heart, 
Yourselves shall hear him speak. 

Speak, Master Cranmer, 
Fulfil your promise made me, and 

proclaim 
Your true undoubted faith, that all 

may hear. 
Cranmer. And that I will. God, 

Father of Heaven ! 
O Son of God, Redeemer of the world ! 

Holy Ghost ! proceeding from them 

both, 
Three persons and one God, have 

mercy on me, 
Most miserable sinner, wretched man. 

1 have offended against heaven and 

earth 
More grievously than any tongue can 

tell. 
Then whither should I flee for any 

help? 
I am ashamed to lift my eyes to heaven, 
And I can find no refuge upon earth. 
Shall I despair then 1 — God forbid ! 

OGod, 
For thou art merciful, refusing none 



QUEEN MARY. 



745 



That come to Thee for succor, unto 

Thee, 
Therefore, I come ; humble myself to 

Thee, 
Saying, O Lord God, although my sins 

be great, 
For thy great mercy have mercy ! 

God the Son, 
Not for slight faults alone, when thou 

becamest 
Man in the Flesh, was the great mys- 

ter} r wrought ; 
God the Father, not for little sins 
Didst thou yield up thy Son to human 

death ; 
Sut for the greatest sin that can be 

sinn'd, 
Yea, even such as mine, incalculable, 
I'npardonable, — sin against the light, 
The truth of God, which I had proven 

and known. 
Thy mercy must be greater than all 

sin. 
Forgive me, Father, for no merit of 

mine, 
But that Thy name by man be glori- 
fied, 
And Thy most blessed Son's, who died 

for man. 
Good people, every man at time of 

death 
Would fain set forth some saying that 

may live 
After his death and better humankind ; 
For death gives life's last word a 

power to live, 
And, like the stone-cut epitaph, remain 
After the vanish'd voice, and speak 

to men. 
God grant me grace to glorify my God! 
And first I say it is a grievous case. 
Many so dote upon this bubble world, 
Whose colors in a moment break and 

fly, 

They care for nothing else. What 

saith St. John : — 
" Love of this world is hatred against 

God." 
Again, I pray you all that, next to God, 
You do unmurmuringly and willingly 
Obey your King and Queen, and not 

for dread 



Of these alone, but from the fear of 

Him 
Whose ministers they be to govern 

you. 
Thirdly, 2 pray you all to live together 
Like brethren ; yet what hatred 

Christian men 
Bear to each other, seeming not as 

brethren, 
But mortal foes ! But do you good to 

all 
As much as in you lieth. Hurt no 

man more 
Than you would harm your loving 

natural brother 
Of the same roof, same breast. If any 

do, 
Albeit he think himself at home with 

God, 
Of this be sure, he is whole worlds 

away. 
Protestant murmurs. What sort of 

brothers then be those that lust 
To burn each other ? 

Williams. Peace be among you, 

there ! 
Cranmer. Fourthly, to those that 

own exceeding wealth, 
Remember that sore saying spoken 

once 
By Him that was the truth, " How 

hard it is 
For the rich man to enter into 

Heaven ; " 
Let all rich men remember that hard 

word. 
I have not time for more : if ever, now 
Let them flow forth in charity, seeing 

now 
The poor so many, and all food so 

dear. 
Long have I lain in prison, yet have 

heard 
Of all their wretchedness. Give to 

the poor, 
Ye give to God. He is with us in the 

poor. 
And now, forasmuch as I have 

come 
To the last end of life, and thereupon 
Hangs all ray past, and all my life to 

be, 



746 



QUEEN MARY. 



Either to live with Christ in Heaven 

with joy, 
Or to be still in pain with devils in 

hell; 
And, seeing in a moment, I shall find 
[Pointing upwards. 
Heaven or else hell read}- to swallow 
me, [Pointing downwards. 

I shall declare to you my very faith 
Without all color. 

Cole. Hear him, my good brethren. 

Cranmer. I do believe in God, Father 

of all ; 

In every article of the Catholic faith, 

And every syllable taught us by our 

Lord, 
His prophets, and apostles, in the 

Testaments, 
Both Old and New. 

Cole. Be plainer, Master Cranmer. 
Cranmer. And now I come to the 
great cause that weighs 
Upon my conscience more than any- 
thing 
Or said or done in all my life by me ; 
For there be writings I have set abroad 
Against the truth I knew within my 

heart, 
Written for fear of death, to save my 

life, 
If that might be ; the papers by my 

hand 
Sign'd since my degradation — by this 
hand 

[Holding out his right hand. 
Written and sign'd — I here renounce 

them all ; 
And, since my hand offended, having 

written 
Against my heart, my hand shall first 

be burnt, 
So I may come to the fire. 

[Dead silence. 
Protestant murmurs. 
First Protestant. I knew it would be 

so. 
Second Protestant. Our prayers are 

heard ! 
Third Protestant. God bless him ! 
Catholic murmurs. Out upon him ! 
out upon him ! 
Liar ! dissembler ! traitor ! to the fire ! 



Williams {raising his voice). You 
know that you recanted all you 
said 

Touching the sacrament in that same 
book 

You wrote against my Lord of Win- 
chester ; 

Dissemble not ; play the plain Chris- 
tian man. 
Cranmer. Alas, my Lord, 

I have been a man loved plainness all 
my life ; 

I did dissemble, but the hour has come 

For utter truth and plainness ; where- 
fore, I say, 

I hold by all I wrote within that book. 

Moreover, 

As for the Pope I count him Anti- 
christ, 

With all his devil's doctrines ; and 
refuse, 
■ Reject him, and abhor him. I have 
said. [Cries on all sides, 

" Pull him down ! Away with 
him ! " 
Cole. Ay, stop the heretic's mouth ! 

Hale him away ! 
Williams. Harm him not, harm him 
not ! have him to the fire ! 
[Cranmer goes out between Two 
Friars, smiling; hands are reached 
to him from the crowd. Lord 
William Howard and Lord 
Paget are left alone in the church. 
Paget. The nave and aisles all 
empty as a fool's jest ! 

No, here's Lord William Howard. 
What, my Lord, 

You have not gone to see the burning? 
Howard. Fie ! 

To stand at ease, and stare as at a 
show, 

And watch a good man burn. Never 
again. 

I saw the deaths of Latimer and Rid- 
ley. 

Moreover, tho' a Catholic, I would not, 

For the pure honor of our common 
nature, 

Hear what I might — another recanta- 
tion 

Of Cranmer at the stake. 






QUEEN MARY. 



747 



Paget. You'd not hear that. 

He pass'd out smiling, and he walk'd 

upright ; 
His eye was like a soldier's, whom the 

general 
He looks to and he leans on as his 

God, 
Hath rated for some backwardness 

and bidd'n him 
Charge one against a thousand, and 

the man 
Hurls his soil'd life against the pikes 

and dies. 
Howard. Yet that he might not 

after all those papers 
Of recantation yield again, who 

knows ? 
Paget. Papers of recantation ! 

Think you then 
That Cranmer read all papers that he 

sign'd 1 
Or sign'd all those they tell us that he 

sign'd ? 
Nay, I trow not : and you shall see, 

my Lord, 
That howsoever hero-like the man 
Dies in the fire, this Bonner or another 
Will in some lying fashion misreport 
His ending to the glory of their 

church. 
And you saw Latimer and Ridley die 1 
Latimer was eighty, was he not ? his 

best 
Of life was over then. 

Howard. His eighty years 

Look'd somewhat crooked on him in 

his frieze ; 
But after they had stript him to his 

shroud, 
He stood upright, a lad of twenty-one, 
And gather'd with his hands the start- 
ing flame, 
And wash'd his hands and all his face 

therein, 
Until the powder suddenly blew him 

dead. 
Ridley was longer burning ; but he 

died 
As manfully and boldlv, and, 'fore 

God, 
I know them heretics, but right Eng- 
lish ones. 



If ever, as heaven grant, we clash 

with Spain, 
Our Ridley-soldiers and our Latimer- 

sailors 
Will teach her something. 

Paget. Your mild Legate Pole 

Will tell you that the devil helpt them 

thro' it. 
\_A murmur of the Crowd in the 

distance. 
Hark, how those Roman wolfdogs 

howl and bay him ! 
Howard. Might it not be the other 

side rejoicing 
In his brave end ? 

Paget. They are too crush'd, too 

broken, 
They can but weep in silence. 

Howard. Ay, ay, Paget, 

They have brought it in large measure 

on themselves. 
Have I not heard them mock the 

blessed Host 
In songs so lewd, the beast might roar 

his claim 
To being in God's image, more than 

they ? 
Have I not seen the gamekeeper, the 

groom, 
Gardener, and huntsman, in the par- 
son's place, 
The parson from his own spire swung 

out dead, 
And Ignorance crying in the streets, 

and all men 
Regarding her ? I say they have 

drawn the fire 
On their own heads : yet, Paget, I do 

hold 
The Catholic, if he have the greater 

right, 
Hath been the crueller. 

Paget. Action and re-action, 

The miserable see-saw of our child- 
world, 
Make us despise it at odd hours, my 

Lord. 
Heaven help that this re-action not 

re-act 
Yet fierceiier under Queen Elizabeth, 
So that she come to rule us. 

Howard. The world's mad. 



748 



QUEEN MARY. 



Paget. My Lord, the world is like 

a drunken man, 
Who cannot move straight to his end 

— but reels 
Now to the right, then as far to the 

left, 
Push'd by the crowd beside — and 

underfoot 
An earthquake ; for since Henry for 

a doubt — 
Which a young lust had clapt upon 

the back, 
Crying, " Forward ! " — set our old 

church rocking, men 
Have hardly known what to believe, 

or whether 
They should believe in anything ; the 

currents 
So shift and change, they see not 

how they are borne, 
Nor whither. I conclude the King a 

beast ; 
Verily a lion if you will — the world 
A most obedient beast and fool — 

myself 
Half beast and fool as appertaining 

to it; 
Altho' your Lordship hath as little of 

each 
Cleaving to your original Adam-clay, 
As may be consonant with mortality. 
Howard. We talk and Cranmer 

suffers. 
The kindliest man I ever knew; see, 

see, 
I speak of him in the past. Unhappy 

land! 
Hard-natured Queen, half-Spanish in 

herself, 
And grafted on the hard-grain'd stock 

of Spain — 
Her life, since Philip left her, and she 

lost 
Her fierce desire of bearing him a 

child, 
Hath, like a brief and bitter winter's 

day, 
Gone narrowing down and darkening, 

to a close. 
There will be more conspiracies, I 

fear. 
Paget. Ay, ay, beware of France. 



Howard. Paget, Paget ! 

I have seen heretics of the poorer 

sort, 
Expectant of the rack from day to 

day, 
To whom the fire were welcome, lying 

chain'd 
In breathless dungeons over steaming 

sewers, 
Fed with rank bread that crawl'd upon 

the tongue, 
And putrid water, every drop a worm, 
Until they died of rotted limbs ; and 

then 
Cast on the dunghill naked, and 

become 
Hideously alive again from head to 

heel, 
Made even the carrion-nosing mongrel 

vomit 
With hate and horror. 

Paget. Nay, you sicken me 

To hear you. 

Howard. Fancy-sick ; these things 

are done, 
Done right against the promise of this 

Queen 
Twice given. 

Paget. No faith with heretics, my 

Lord! 
Hist ! there be two old gossips — gos- 
pellers, 
I take it ; stand behind the pillar here ; 
I warrant you they talk about the 

burning. 

Enter Two Old Women. Joan, and 
after her Tib. 

Joan. Why, it be Tib ! 

Tib. I cum behind tha, gall, and 
couldn't make tha hear. Eh, the wind 
and the wet ! What a day, what a 
day ! nigh upo' judgement daay ioike. 
Pwoaps be pretty things, Joan, but 
they wunt set i' the Lord s cheer o' 
that daay. 

Joan. I must set down myself, Tib ; 
it be a var waay vor my owld legs up 
vro' Islip. Eh, my rheumatizy be that 
bad howiver be I to win to the burnin'. 

Tib. I should saay 'twur ower by 



QUEEN MARY. 



749 



now. I'd ha' been here avore, but 
Dutnble wur blow'd wi' the wind, and 
Dumble's the best milcher in Islip. 

Joan. Our Daisy's as good 'z her. 

Tib. Noa, Joan* 

Joan. Our Daisy's butter's as 
good 'z hern. 

Tib. Noa, Joan. 

Joan. Our Daisy's cheeses be bet- 
ter. 

Tib. Noa, Joan. 

Joan. Eh, then ha' thy waay wi' 
me, Tib ; ez thou hast wi' thy owld 
man. 

Tib. Ay, Joan, and ray owld man 
wur up and awaay betimes wi' dree 
hard eggs tor a good pleace at the 
burnin'; and barrin' the wet, Hodge 
'ud ha' been a-harrowin' o' white 
peasen i' the outfield — and barrin' 
the wind, Durable wur blow'd wi' the 
wind, so z we was forced to stick her, 
but we fetched her round at last. 
Thank the Lord therevore. Dumble's 
the best milcher in Islip. 

Joan. Thou's thy way wi' man and 
beast, Tib. I wonder at tha', it beats 
me ! Eh, but I do know ez Pwoaps 
and vires be bad things ; tell 'ee now, 
I heerd sum mat as summun towld 
suramun o' owld Bishop Gardiner's 
end ; there wur an owld lord a-cum to 
dine wi' un, and a wur so owld a 
couldn't bide vor his dinner, but a had 
to bide howsomiver, vor "I wunt 
dine," says my Lord Bishop, says he, 
"not till I hears ez Latimer and Rid- 
ley be a-vire ; " and so they bided on 
and on till vour o' the clock, till his 
man cum in post vro' here, and tells 
un ez the vire has tuk holt. " Now," 
says the Bishop, says he, "we'll gwo 
to dinner;" and the owld lord fell to 
'a meat wi' a will, God bless un ! but 
Gardiner wur struck down like by the 
hand o' God avore a could taste a 
1, and a set un all a-vire, so 'z 
the tongue on un cum a-iolluping out 
o' 'is mouth as black as a rat. Thank 
the Lord, therevore. 

Paget. The foola ! 

776. Ay, Joan ; and Queen Mary 



gwoes on a-burnin' and a-burnin', to 
get her baaby born ; but all her burn- 
ins' 'ill never burn out the hypocrisy 
that makes the water in her. There's 
nought but the vire of God's hell ez 
can burn out that. 

Joan. Thank the Lord, therevore. 
Paget. The fools ! 
Tib. A-burnin' and a-burnin', and 
a-makin' o' volk madder and madder; 
but tek thou ray word vor't, Joan, — 
and I bean't wrong not twice i' ten 
year — the burnin' o' the owld arch- 
bishop '11 burn the Pwoap out o' this 
'ere land vor iver and iver. 

Howard. Out of the church, you 

brace of cursed crones, 
Or I will have you duck'd ! ( Women 

hurry out.) Said I not right 1 
For how. should reverend prelate or 

throned prince 
Brook for an hour such brute malig- 
nity ? 
Ah, what an acrid wine has Luther 

brew'd ! 
Paget. Pooh, pooh, my Lord! poor 

garrulous country-wives. 
Buy you their cheeses, and they'll side 

with you ; 
You cannot judge the liquor from the 

lees. 
Howard. I think that in some sort 

we may. But see, 

Enter Peters. 

Peters, my gentleman, an honest 

Catholic, 
Who follow'd with the crowd toCran- 

mer's fire. 
One that would neither misreport nor 

lie, 
Not to gain paradise : no, nor if the 

Pope, 
Charged him to do it — he is white as 

death. 
Peters, how pale you look ! you bring 

the smoke 
Of Cranmer's burning with you, 

Peter*. Twice or thrice 

The smoke of Cranmer's burningwrapt 

me round. 



750 



QUEEN MARY. 



Howard. Peters, you know me 

Catholic, but English. 
Did he die bravely ? Tell me that, or 

leave 
All else untold. 

Peters. My Lord, he died most 

bravely. 
Howard. Then tell me all. 
Paget. Ay, Master Peters, tell us. 
Peters. You saw him how he past 

among the crowd ; 
And ever as he walk'd the Spanish 

friars 
Still plied him with entreaty and re- 
proach : 
But Cranmer, as the helmsman at the 

helm 
Steers, ever looking to the happy ha- 
ven 
Where he shall rest at night, moved 

to his deatli ; 
And I could see that many silent 

hands 
Came from the crowd and met his 

own ; and thus, 
When we had come where Eidley 

burnt with Latimer, 
He, with a cheerful smile, as one 

whose mind 
Is all made up, in haste put off the 

rags 
They had mock'd his misery with, and 

all in white, 
His long white beard, which he had 

never shaven 
Since Henry's death, down-sweeping 

to the chain 
Wherewith they bound him to the 

stake, he stood 
More like an ancient father of the 

Church, 
Than heretic of these times ; and still 

the friars 
Plied him, but Cranmer only shook 

his head, 
Or answer'd them in smiling negatives ; 
Whereat Lord Williams gave a sud- 
den cry : — 
" Make short ! make short ! " and so 

they lit the wood. 
Then Cranmer lifted his left hand to 

heaven, 



And thrust his right into the bitter 
flame ; 

And crying, in his deep voice, more 
than once, 

" This hath offended — this unworthy 
hand ! " 

So held it till it all was burn'd, before 

The flame had reach'd his body; I 
stood near — 

Mark'd him — he never uttered moan 
of pain : 

He never stirr'd or writhed, but, like a 
statue, 

Unmoving in the greatness of the 
flame, 

Gave up the ghost ; and so past mar- 
tyr-like — 

Martyr I may not call him — past — 
but whither ? 
Paget. To purgatory, man, to pur- 
gatory. 
Peters. Nay, but, my Lord, he de- 
nied purgatory. 
Paget. Why then to heaven, and 

God ha' mercy on him. 
Howard. Paget, despite his fearful 
heresies, 

I loved the man, and needs must 
moan for him ; 

Cranmer ! 

Paget. But your moan is useless 
now : 
Come out, my Lord, it is a world of 
fools. [Exeunt. 

ACT V. 

SCENE I. — London. Hall in the 
Palace. 

Queen, Sir Nicholas Heath. 

Heath. Madam, 

1 do assure you, that it must be look'd 

to: 
Calais is but ill-garrison'd, in Guisnes 
Are scarce two hundred men, and the 

Erench fleet 
Rule in the narrow seas. It must be 

look'd to, 
If war should fall between yourself 

and France ; 
Or you will lose your Calais. 



QUEEN MARY. 



751 



Mary. It shall be look'd to; 

1 wish you a good morning, good Sir 

Nicholas : 
Here is the King. [Exit Heath. 

Enter Philip. 

Philip. Sir Nicholas tells you true, 

And you must look to Calais when I go. 

Mary. Go 1 must you go, indeed — 

again — so soon ? 

Why, nature's licensed vagabond, the 

swallow, 
That might live always in the sun's 

warm heart, 
Stays longer here in our poor north 

than you : — 
Knows where he nested — ever comes 
again. 
Philip. And, Madam, so shall I. 
Mary. 0, will you ? will you ? 

I am faint with fear that you will 
come no more. 
Philip. Ay, ay ; but many voices 

call me hence. 
Mary. Voices — I hear unhappy 
rumors — nay, 
I say not, I believe. What voices 

call you 
Dearer than mine that should be dear- 
est to you ? 
Alas, my Lord ! what voices and how 
many ? 
Philip. The voices of Castile and 
Aragon, 
Granada, Naples, Sicily, and Milan, — 
The voices of Franche-Comte, and the 

Netherlands, 
The voices of Peru and Mexico, 
Tunis, and Oran, and the Philippines, 
And all the fair spice-islands of the 
East. 
Mary (admiringly). You are the 
mightiest monarch upon earth, 
I but a little Queen : and, so indeed, 
Need you the more. 

Philip. A little Queen ! but when 
I came to wed your Majesty, Lord 

Howard, 
Sending an insolent shot that dash'd 

the seas 
Upon lis, made us lower our kingly flag 
To yours of England. 



Mary. Howard is all English ! 

There is no king, not were he ten times 

king, 
Ten times our husband, but must 

lower his flag 
To that of England in the seas of 
England. 
Philip. Is that your answer ? 
Mary. Being Queen of England, 
I have none other. 
Philip. So. 

Mary. But wherefore not 

Helm the huge vessel of your state, 

my liege, 
Here by the side of her who loves you 
most ? 
Philip. No, Madam, no ! a candle in 
the sun 
Is all but smoke — a star beside the 

moon 
Is all but lost ; your people will not 

crown me — 
Your people are as cheerless as your 

clime ; 
Hate me and mine : witness the brawls, 

the gibbets. 
Here sAvings a Spaniard — there an 

Englishman ; 
The peoples are unlike as their com- 
plexion ; 
Yet will I be your swallow and re- 
turn — 
But now I cannot bide. 

Mary. Not to help me ? 

They hate me also for my love to you, 
My Philip ; and these judgments on 

the land — 
Harvestless autumns, horrible agues, 
plague — 
Philip. The blood and sweat of 
heretics at the stake 
Is God's best dew upon the barren field. 
Burn more ! 

Mary. I will, I will ; and you will 

stay 1 
Philip. Have I not said ? Madam, 
I came to sue 
Your Council and yourself to declare 
war. 
Mary. Sir, there are many English 
in your ranks 
To help your battle. 



752 



QUEEN MARY. 



Philip. So far, good. I say 

I came to sue your Council and your- 
self 
To declare, war against the King of 

France. 
Mary. Not to see me ? 
Philip. Ay, Madam, to see you. 
Unalterably and pesteringly fond ! 

[Aside. 
But, soon or late you must have war 

with France ; 
King Henry warms your traitors at 

his hearth. 
Carew is there, and Thomas Stafford 

there. 
Courtenay, belike — 
Mary. A fool and featherhead ! 

Philip. Ay, but they use his name. 

In brief, this Henry 
Stirs up your land against you to the 

intent 
That you may lose your English her- 
itage. 
And then, your Scottish namesake 

marrying 
The Dauphin, he would weld France, 

England, Scotland, 
Into one sword to hack at Spain and 

me. 
Mary. And yet the Pope is now 

colleagued with France ; 
You make your wars upon him down 

in Italy : — 
Philip, can that be well ? 

Philip. Content you, Madam ; 

You must abide my judgment, and 

my father's, 
Who deems it a most just and holy 

war. 
The Pope would cast the Spaniard 

out of Naples : 
He calls us worse than Jews, Moors, 

Saracens. 
The Pope has pushed his horns be- 
yond his mitre — 
Beyond his province. Now, 
Duke Alva will but touch him on the 

horns, 
And he withdraws ; and of his holy 

head — 
For Alva is true son of the true 

church — 



No hair is harm'd. Will you not help 

me here ? 
Mary. Alas ! the Council will not 

hear of war. 
They say your wars are not the wars 

of England. 
They will not lay more taxes on a 

land 
So hunger-nipt and wretched; and 

you know 
The crown is poor. We have given 

the church-lands back : 
The nobles would not ; nay, they clapt 

their hands 
Upon their swords when ask'd ; and 

therefore God 
Is hard upon the people. What's to 

be done ? 
Sir, I will move them in your cause 

again, 
Andwe willraise us loans and subsidies 
Among the merchants ; and Sir 

Thomas Gresham 
Will aid us. There is Antwerp and 

the Jews. 
Philip. Madam, my thanks. 
Mary. And you will stay your 

going ? 
Philip. And further to discourage 

and lay lame 
The plots of France, altho' you love 

her not, 
You must proclaim Elizabeth your 

heir. 
She stands between you and the 

Queen of Scots. 
Mary. The Queen of Scots at least 

is Catholic. 
Philip. Ay, Madam, Catholic ; but 

I will not have 
The King of France the King of Eng- 
land too. 
Mary. But she's a heretic, and, 

when I am gone, 
Brings the new learning back. 

Philip. It must be done. 

You must proclaim Elizabeth your 

heir. 
Mary. Then it is done ; but you will 

stay your going 
Somewhat beyond your settled pur- 



QUEEN MA FY. 



753 



Philip. No ! 

Mary. What, not one day ? 

Philip. You beat upon the rock. 

Mary. And I am broken there. 

Philip. Is this a place 

To wail in, Madam ? what ! a public 

hall. 
Go in, I pray you. 

Mary. Do not seem so changed. 
Say go; but only say it lovingly. 

Philip. You do mistake. I am not 
one to change. 
I never loved you more. 

Mary. Sire, I obey you. 

Come quickly. 

Philip. Ay. [Exit Mary. 

Enter Count de Feria. 

Feria (aside). The Queen in tears! 

Philip. Feria ! 

Ilast thou not mark'd — come closer 

to mine ear — 
How doubly aged this Queen of ours 

hath grown 
Since she lost hope of bearing us a 
child ! 
Feria. Sire, if your Grace hath 

mark'd it, so have I. 
Philip. Hast thou not likewise 
mark'd Elizabeth, 
How fair and royal — like a Queen, 
indeed ? 
Feria. Allow me the same answer 
as before — 
That if your Grace hath mark'd her, 
so have I. 
Philip. Good, now; methinks my 
Queen is like enough 
To leave me by and by. 

Feria. To leave you, sire ? 

Philip. I mean not like to live. 

Elizabeth — 

To Philibert of Savoy, as you know, 

We meant to wed her ; but I am not 

sure 
She will not serve me better — so my 

Queen 
Would leave me — as — my wife. 
Feria. Sire, even so. 

Philip. She will not have Prince 
Philibert of Savoy. 



Feria. No, sire. 

Philip. I have to pray you, 

some odd time, 
To sound the Princess carelessly on 

this ; 
Not as from me, but as your phantasy ; 
And tell me how she takes it. 

Feria. Sire, I will. 

Philip. I am not certain but that 
Philibert 
Shall be the man ; and I shall urge 

his suit 
Upon the Queen, because I am not 

certain : 
You understand, Feria. 

Feria. Sire, I do. 

Philip. And if you be not secret 
in this matter, 
You understand me there, too ' 

Feria. Sire, I do. 

Philip. You must be sweet and 

supple, like a Frenchman. 

She is none of those who loathe the 

honeycomb. [Exit Feria. 

Enter Renard. 
Renard. My liege, I bring you 

goodly tidings. 
Philip. , Well ? 

Renard. There will be war with 
France, at last, my liege ; 

Sir Thomas Stafford, a bull-headed 
ass, 

Sailing from France, with thirty Eng- 
lishmen, 

Hath taken Scarboro' Castle, north of 
York; 

Proclaims himself protector, and af- 
firms 

The Queen has forfeited her right to 
reign 

By marriage with an alien — other 
things 

As idle ; a weak Wyatt ! Little doubt 

This buzz will soon be silenced ; but 
the Council 

(I have talk'd with some already) are 
for war. 

This the fifth conspiracy hatch'd in 
France ; 

They show their teeth upon it; and 
your Grace, 



754 



QUEEN MARY. 



So you will take advice of mine, 

should stay 
ret for awhile, to shape and guide the 
event. 
Philip. Good ! Renard, I will stay 

then. 
Renard. Also, sire, 

Might I not say — to please your wife, 
the Queen ? 
Philip. Ay, Renard, if you care to 
put it so. [Exeunt. 

SCENE II. — A Room in the 
Palace. 

Mary, sitting: a rose in her hand. 
Lady Clarence. Alice in the back- 
ground. 

Mary. Look ! I have play'd with 
this poor rose so long 
I have broken off the head. 

Lady Clarence. Your Grace hath 
been 
More merciful to many a rebel head 
That should have fallen, and may rise 
again. 
Mary. There were not many hang'd 

for Wyatt's rising. 
Lady Clarence. .Nay, not two hun- 
dred. 
Mary. I could weep for them 

And her, and mine own self and all 
the world. 
Lady Clarence. For her % for whom, 
your Grace ? 

Enter Usher. 
Usher. The Cardinal. 
Enter Cardinal Pole. (Mary rises.) 

Mary. Reginald Pole, what news 
hath plagued thy heart ? 
What makes thy favor like the blood- 
less head 
FalFn on the block, and held up by 

the hair? 
Philip ? — 

Pole. No, Philip is as warm in life 
As ever. 

Mary. Ay, and then as cold as 
ever. 
Is Calais taken 1 



Pole. Cousin, there hath chanced 

A sharper harm to England and to 
Rome, 

Than Calais taken. Julius the Third 

Was ever just, and mild, and father- 
like; 

But this new Pope Caraffa, Paul the 
Fourth, 

Not only reft me of that legateship 

Which Julius gave me, and the legate- 
ship 

Annex'd to Canterbury — nay, but 
worse — 

And yet I must obey the Holy Father, 

And so must you, good cousin; — 
worse than all, 

A passing bell toll'd in a dying ear — 

He hath cited me to Rome, for heresy, 

Before his Inquisition. 

Mary. I knew it, cousin, 

But held from you all papers sent by 
Rome, 

That you might rest among us, till 
the Pope, 

To compass which I wrote myself to 
Rome, 

Reversed his doom, and that you 
might not seem 

To disobey his Holiness. 

Pole. He hates Philip ; 

He is all Italian, and he hates the 
Spaniard ; 

He cannot dream that / advised the 
war ; 

He strikes thro' me at Philip and 
yourself. 

Nay, but I know it of old, he hates 
me too ; 

So brands me in the stare of Christen- 
dom 

A heretic ! 

Now, even now, when bow'd before 
my time, 

The house half-ruin'd ere the lease be 
out ; 

When I should guide the Church in 
peace at home, 

After my twenty years of banishment. 

And all my lifelong labor to uphold 

The primacy — a heretic. Long ago, 

When I was ruler in the patrimony, 

I was too lenient to the Lutheran, 



QUEEN MARY. 



755 



And I and learned friends among our- 
selves 

Would freely canvass certain Luther- 
anisms. 

What then, he knew I was no Lutheran. 

A heretic ! 

He drew this shaft against me to the 
head, 

When it was thought I might be 
chosen Pope, 

But then withdrew it. In full con- 
sistory, 

When I was made Archbishop, he 
approved me. 

And how should he have sent me 
Legate hither, 

Deeming me heretic ? and what heresy 
since ? 

But he was evermore mine enemy, 

And hates the Spaniard — fiery-chol- 
eric, 

A drinker of black, strong, volcanic 
wines, 

That ever make him fierier. I, a 
heretic % 

Your Highness knows that in pursu- 
ing heresy 

I have gone beyond your late Lord 
Chancellor, — 

He cried Enough ! enough ! before 
his death. — 

Gone beyond him and mine own nat- 
ural man 

(It was God's cause) ; so far they call 
me now, 

The scourge and butcher of their Eng- 
lish church. 
Mar i). Have courage, your reward 

is Heaven itself. 
Pole. They groan amen; they 
swarm into the fire 

Like flies — for what 1 no dogma. 
They know nothing ; 

They burn for nothing. 

Mary. You have done your best. 
Pole. Have done my best, and as a 
faithful son, 

That all day long hath wrought his 
father's work, 

When back he comes at evening hath 
the door 



Shut on him by the father whom he 

loved, 
His early follies cast into his teeth, 
And the poor son turn'd out into the 

street 
To sleep, to die — I shall die of it, 

cousin. 
Mary. I pray you be not so discon- 
solate ; 
I still will do mine utmost with the 

Pope. 
Poor cousin ! 
Have not I been the fast friend of 

your life 
Since mine began, and it was thought 

we two 
Might make one flesh, and cleave 

unto each other 
As man and wife 1 

Pole. Ah, cousin, I remember 

How I would dandle you upon my 

knee 
At lisping-age. I watch'd you danc- 
ing once 
With your huge father ; he look'd the 

Great Harry, 
You but his cockboat; prettily you 

did it, 
And innocently. No — we were not 

made 
One flesh in happiness, no happiness 

here ; 
But now we are made one flesh in 

misery ; 
Our bridemaids are not lovely — Dis- 
appointment, 
Ingratitude, Injustice, Evil-tongue, 
Labor-in-vain. 

Mary. Surely, not all in vain. 

Peace, cousin, peace ! I am sad at 

heart myself. 
Pole. Our altar is a mound of dead 

men's clay, 
Dug from the grave that yawns for 

us beyond ; 
And there is one Death stands behind 

the Groom, 
And there is one Death stands behind 

the Bride — 
Mary. Have you been looking at 

the " Dance of Death " 1 



756 



QUEEN MARY. 



Pole. No; but these libellous papers 

which I found 
Strewn in your palace. Look you 

here — the Pope 
Pointing at me with " Pole, the here- 
tic, 
Thou hast burnt others, do thou burn 

thyself, 
Or I will burn thee; " and this other ; 

see! — 
" We pray continually for the death 
Of our accursed Queen and Cardinal 

Pole." 
This last — I dare not read it her. 

[Aside. 
Mary. Away ! 

Why do you bring me these ? 
I thought you knew me better. I 

never read, 
I tear them ; they come back upon my 

dreams. 
The hands that write them should be 

burnt clean off 
As Cranmer's, and the fiends that 

utter them 
Tongue-torn with pincers, lash'd to 

death, or lie 
Famishing in black cells, while fam- 

ish'd rats 
Eat them alive. Why do they bring 

me these ? 
Do you mean to drive me mad ? 

Pole. I had forgotten 

How these poor libels trouble you. 

Your pardon, 
Sweet cousin, and farewell ! " bub- 
ble world, 
Whose colors in a moment break and 

fly!" 
Why, who said that ? I know not — 

true enough ! 
[Puts up the papers, all but the last, 

which falls. Exit Pole. 
Alice. If Cranmer's spirit were a 

mocking one, 
And heard these two, there might be 

sport for him. [Aside. 

Mary. Clarence, they hate ne ; 

even while I speak 
There lurks a silent dagger, listening 
In some dark closet, some long gal- 
lery, drawn, 



And panting for my blood as I go by. 
Lady Clarence. Nay, Madam, there 
be loyal papers too, 
And I have often found them. 

Mary. Find me one ! 

Lady Clarence. Ay, Madam; but 
Sir Nicholas Heath, the Chan- 
cellor, 
Would see your Highness. 

Mary. Wherefore should I see 

him ? 
Lady Clarence. Well, Madam, he 
may bring you news from 
Philip. 
Mary. So, Clarence. 
Lady Clarence. Let me first put 
up your hair ; 
It tumbles all abroad. 

Mary. And the gray dawn 

Of an old age that never will be mine 
Is all the clearer seen. No, no ; what 

matters ? 
Forlorn I am, and let me look forlorn. 

Enter Sir Nicholas Heath. 
Heath. I bring your Majesty such 
grievous news 
I grieve to bring it. Madam, Calais 
is taken. 
Mary. What traitor spoke 1 Here, 
let my cousin Pole 
Seize him and burn him for a Lu- 
theran. 
Heath. Her Highness is unwell. I 

will retire. 
Lady Clarence. Madam, your Chan- 
cellor, Sir Nicholas Heath. 
Mary. Sir Nicholas ! I am stunn'd 
— Nicholas Heath 1 
Methought some traitor smote me on 

the head. 
What said you, my good Lord, that 

our brave English 
Had sallied out from Calais and 

driven back 
The Frenchmen from their trenches ? 
Heath. Alas ! no. 

That gateway to the mainland over 

which 
Our flag hath floated for two hundred 

years 
Is France again. 



QUEEX MARY. 



757 



.Vary. So ; but it is not lost — 

Not vet. Send out : let England as of 

old 
Rise lionlike, strike hard and deep 

into 
The prey they are rending from her 

— ay, and rend 
The renders too. Send out, send out, 

and make 
Musters in all the counties; gather 

all 
From sixteen years to sixty ; collect 

the fleet ; 
Let every craft that carries sail and 

gun 
Steer toward Calais. Guisnes is not 

taken yet ? 
Heath. Guisnes is not taken yet. 
Mary. There is yet hope. 

Heath. Ah, Madam, but your peo- 
ple are so cold ; 
1 do much fear that England will not 

care. 
Methinks there is no manhood left 

among us. 
Mary. Send out ; I am too weak to 

stir abroad : 
Tell my mind to the Council — to the 

Parliament : 
Proclaim it to the winds. Thou art 

cold thyself 
To babble of their coldness. would 

I were 
My father for an hour ! Away now — 

Quick ! [Exit Heath. 

I hoped I had served God with all my 

might ! 
It seems I have not. Ah ! much 

heresy 
Shelter'd in Calais. Saints, I have 

rebuilt 
Your shrines, set up your broken 

images ; 
Be comfortable to me. Suffer not 
That my brief reign in England be 

defamed 
Thro' all her angry chronicles here- 
after 
By loss of Calais. Grant me Calais. 

Philip, 
We have made war upon the Holy 

Father 



All for your sake : what good could 
come of that 1 
Lady Clarence. No, Madam, not 
against the Holy Father; 
You did but help King Philip's war 

with France, 
Your troops were never down in Italy. 
Mary. 1 am a byword. Heretic and 
rebel 
Point at me and make merry. Philip 

gone ! 
And Calais gone ! Time that I were 
gone too ! 
Lady Clarence. Nay, if the fetid 
gutter had a voice 
And cried I was not clean, what 

should I care ? 
Or you, for heretic cries % And I 

believe, 
Spite of your melancholy Sir Nicholas, 
Your England is as loyal as myself. 
Mary [seeing the paper dropt by Pole). 
There ! there ! another paper ! 
Said you not 
Many of these were loyal ? Shall I 

try 
If this be one of such 1 

Lady Clarence. Let it be, let it be. 

God pardon me ! I have never yet 

found one. [Aside. 

Mary [reads). " Your people hate 

you as your husbandhatesyou." 

Clarence, Clarence, what have I done? 

what sin 
Beyond all grace, all pardon? Mother 

of God, 
Thou knowest woman never meant so 

well, 
And fared so ill in this disastrous 

world. 
My people hate me and desire my 
death. 
Lady Clarence. No, Madam, no. 
Mary. My husband hates me, and 

desires my death. 
Lady Clarence. No, Madam ; these 
are libels. 
< Mary. I hate myself, and I desire 
my death. 
Lady Clarence. Long live your 
Majesty! Shall Alice sing 
you 



758 



QUEEN MARY. 



One of her pleasant songs 1 Alice, 

my child, 
Bring us your lute (Alice goes). They 

say the gloom of Saul 
Was lighten'd by young David's harp. 
Mary. Too young ! 

And never knew a Philip. 

Be-enter Alice. 

Give me the lute. 
He hates me ! 

(She sings.) 

Hapless doom of woman happy in betroth- 
ing! 

Beauty passes like a breath and love is lost 
in loathing : 

Low, my lute; speak low, my lute, but say 
the world is nothing — 
Low, lute, low ! 

Love will hover round the flowers when they 
first awaken; 

Love will fly the fallen leaf, and not be over- 
taken ; 

Low, my lute! oh low, my lute! we fade and 
are forsaken — 

Low, dear lute, low ! 

Take it away ! not low enough for me ! 

Alice. Your Grace hath a low voice. 

Mary. How dare you say it ? 

Even for that he hates me. A low 

voice 
Lost in a wilderness where none can 

hear! 
A voice of shipwreck on a shoreless 

sea! 
A low voice from the dust and from 

the grave 
(Sitting on the ground). There, am I 

low enough now ? 
Alice. Good Lord ! how grim and 

ghastly looks her Grace, 
With both her knees drawn upward to 

her chin. 
There was an old-world tomb beside 

my father's, 
And this was open'd, and the dead 

were found 
Sitting, and in this fashion ; she looks 

a corpse. 

Enter Lady Magdalen Dacres. 
Lady Magdalen. Madam, the Count 
de Feria waits without, 
In hopes to see your Highness. 



Lady Clarence (pointing to Mary). 
Wait he must — 
Her trance again. She neither sees 

nor hears, 
And may not speak for hours. 

Lady Magdalen. Unhappiest 

Of Queens and wives and women ! 
Alice {in the foreground with Lady 
Magdalen.) And all along 

Of Philip. 

Lady 3Iagdalen. Not so loud ! Our 
Clarence there 
Sees ever such an aureole round the 

Queen, 
It gilds the greatest wronger of her 

peace, 
Who stands the nearest to her. 

Alice. Ay, this Philip ; 

I used to love the Queen with all my 

heart — 
God help me, but methinks I love her 

less 
For such a dotage upon such a man. 
I would I were as tall and strong as 
you. 
Lady Magdalen. I seem half-shamed 

at times to be so tall. 
Alice. You are the stateliest deer in 
all the herd — 
Beyond his aim — but I am small and 

scandalous, 
And love to hear bad tales of Philip. 
Lady Magdalen. Why ? 

I never heard him utter worse of you 
Than that you were low-statured. 

Alice. Does he think 

Low stature is low nature, or all wom- 
en's 
Low as his own ? 

Lady Magdalen. There you strike 
in the nail. 
This coarseness is a want of phantasy. 
It is the low man thinks the woman 

low ; 
Sin is too dull to see beyond himself. 
Alice. Ah, Magdalen, sin is bold as 
well as dull. 
How dared he 1 

Lady Magdalen. Stupid soldiers oft 
are bold. 
Poor lads, they see not what the gen- 
eral sees, 



QUEEN MARY. 



759 



A risk of utter ruin. I am not 

Beyond his aim, or was not. 

Alice. Who? Not you '! 

Tell, tell me; save my credit witli 
myself. 
Lady Magdalen. I never breathed 
it to a bird in the eaves, 

Would not for all the stars and 
maiden moon 

( )ur drooping Queen should know ! In 
Hampton Court 

My window look'd upon the corri- 
dor; 

And I was robing ; — this poor throat 
of mine, 

Barer than I should wish a man to see 

it,— 

When lie we speak of drove the win- 
dow back, 

And, like a thief, push'd in his royal 
hand; 

But by God's providence a good stout 
staff 

Lay near me ; and you know me 
strong of arm ; 

I do believe I lamed his Majesty's 

For a day or two, tho', give the Devil 
his due, 

I never found he bore me any spite. 
Alice. I would she could have wed- 
ded that poor youth, 

My Lord of Devon — light enough, 
God knows, 

And mixt with Wyatt's rising — and 
the boy 

Not out of him — but neither cold, 
coarse, cruel, 

And more than all — no Spaniard. 



Lady C 



Not so loud. 



Lord Devon, girls ! what are you 
whispering here ? 
Alice. Probing an old state-secret — 
how it chanced 
That this young Earl was sent on 

foreign travel, 
Not lost his head. 
Lady Clarence. There was no proof 

against him. 
Alice. Nay, Madam ; did not Gardi- 
ner intercept 
A letter which the Count de Noailles 
wrote 



To that dead traitor Wyatt, with full 

proof 
Of Courtenay's treason ? What be- 
came of that ? 
Lady Clarence. Some say that 
Gardiner, out of love for him, 
Burnt it, and some relate that it was 

lost 
When Wyatt sack'd the Chancellor's 

house in Southwark. 
Let dead things rest. 

Alice. Ay, and with him who died 
Alone in Italy. 

Lady Clarence. Much changed, I 
hear, 
Had put off levity and put graveness 

on. 
The foreign courts report him in his 

manner 
Noble as his young person and old 

shield. 
It might be so — but all is over 

now; 
He caught a chill in the lagoons of 

Venice, 
And died in Padua. 

Mary {looking up suddenly). Died 

in the true faith ? 
Lady Clarence. Ay, Madam, happily. 
Mary. Happier he than I. 

Lady Magdalen. It seems her High- 
ness hath awaken'd. Think you 
That I might dare to tell her that the 

Count 

Mary. I will see no man hence for 
evermore, 
Saving my confessor and my cousin 
Pole. 
Lady Magdalen. It is the Count de 

Feria, my dear lady. 
Mary. What Count ? 

Lady Magdalen. The Count de 
Feria, from his Majesty 
King Philip. 

Mary. Philip ! quick ! loop up my 
hair ! 
Throw cushions on that seat, and make 

it throne-like. 
Arrange my dress — the gorgeous 

Indian shawl 
That Philip brought me in our happy 
i days ! — 



760 



QUEEN MARY. 



That covers all. So — am I somewhat 

Queenlike, 
Bride of the mightiest sovereign upon 

earth ? 
Lady Clarence. Ay, so j^our Grace 

would bide a moment yet. 
Mary. No, no, he brings a letter. 

I may die 
Before I read it. Let me see him at 

once. 

Enter Count de Feria (kneels). 
Feria. I trust your Grace is well. 

( Aside) How her hand burns ! 
Mary. I am not well, but it will 
better me, 
Sir Count, to read the letter which 
you bring. 
Feria. Madam, I bring no letter. 
Mary. How ! no letter ? 

Feria. His Highness is so vex'd with 

strange affairs — 
Mary. That his own wife is no affair 

of his. 
Feria. Nay, Madam, nay ! he sends 
his veriest love, 
And says, he will come quickly. 

Mary. Doth he, indeed 1 

You, sir, do you remember what you 

said 
When last you came to England ? 

Feria. Madam, I brought 

My King's congratulations ; it was 

hoped 
Your Highness was once more in happy 

state 
To give him an heir male. 

Mary. Sir, you said more; 

You said he would come quickly. I 

had horses 
On all the road from Dover, day and 

night ; 
On all the road from Harwich, night 

and day ; 
But the child came not, and the hus- 
band came not; 
And yet he will come quickly. . . 

Thou hast learnt 
Thy lesson, and I mine. There is no 

need 
For Philip so to shame himself again. 
Return, 



And tell him that I know he comes no 

more. 
Tell him at last I know his love is 

dead, 
And that I am in state to bring forth 

death — 
Thou art commission'd to Elizabeth, 
And not to me ! 

Feria. Mere compliments and 
wishes. 
But shall I take some message from 
your Grace ? 
Mary. Tell her to come and close 
my dying eyes, 
And wear my crown, and dance upon 
my grave. 
Feria. Then I may say your Grace 
will see your sister ? 
Your Grace is too low-spirited. Air 

and sunshine. 
I would we had you, Madam, in our 

warm Spain. 
You droop in your dim London. 

Mary. Have him away ! 

I sicken of his readiness. 

Lady Clarence. My Lord Count, 

Her Highness is too ill for colloquy. 

Feria (kneels, and kisses her hand). 

I wish her Highness better. 

(Aside) How her hand burns ! 

{Exeunt. 



SCENE III.— A House Near 
London. 

Elizabeth, Steward of the House- 
hold, Attendants. 

Elizabeth. There's half an angel 
wrong'd in your account ; 
Methinks I am all angel, that I bear 

it 
"Without more ruffling. Cast it o'er 
again. 
Steward. I were whole devil if I 
wrong'd you, Madam. 

[Exit Steward. 
Attendant. The Count de Feria from 

the King of Spain. 
Elizabeth. Ah ! — let him enter. 
Nay, you need not go : 

[ To her Ladies 



QUEEN MARY 



761 



Remain within the chamber, hut apart. 
We'll have no private conference. 
Welcome to England ! 

Enter Feria. 

Feria. Fair island star! 

Elizabeth. I shine ! What else, Sir 

Count ! 
Feria. As. far as France, and into 
Philip's heart. 
My King would know if you be fairly 

served, 
And lodged, and treated. 

Elizabeth. You see the lodging, sir, 

I am well-served, and am in everything 

Most loyal and most grateful to the 

Queen. 

Feria. You should be grateful to 

my master, too. 

He spoke of this ; and unto him you 

owe 
That Mary hath acknowledged you 
her heir. 
Elizabeth. No, not to her nor him ; 
but to the people, 
Who know my right, and love me, as 

I love 
The people ! whom God aid! 

Feria. You will be Queen, 

And, were 1 Philip — 

Elizabeth. Wherefore pause you — 

what ? 
Feria. Nay, but I speak from mine 
own self, not him ; 
Your royal sister cannot last ; your 

hand 
Will be much coveted ! What a deli- 
cate one ! 
Our Spanish ladies have none such — 

and there, 
Were you in Spain, this fine fair gos- 
samer gold — 
Like sun-gilt breathings on a frosty 

dawn — 
That hovers round your shoulder — 
Elizabeth. Is it so fine 1 

Troth, some have .said so. 

Feria. — would be deemed a mira- 
cle. 
Elizabeth. Your Philip hath gold 
hair and golden beard ; 



There must be ladies many with hair 

like mine. 
Feria. Some few of Gothic blood 

have golden hair, 
But none like yours. 

Elizabeth. I am happy you approve 

it. 
Feria. But as to Philip and your 

Grace — consider, — 
If such a one as you should match 

with Spain, 
What hinders but that Spain and 

England join'd, 
Should make the mightiest empire 

earth has known. 
Spain would be England on her seas, 

and England 
Mistress of the Indies. 

Elizabeth. It may chance, that 

England 
Will be the Mistress of the Indies yet, 
Without the help of Spain. 

Feria. Impossible ; 

Except you put Spain down. 
Wide of the mark ev'n for a madman's 

dream. 
Elizabeth. Perhaps; but we have 

seamen. Count de Feria, 
I take it that the King hath spoken 

to you ; 
But is Don Carlos such a goodlv 

match ^ 
Feria. Don Carlos, Madam, is but 

twelve years old. 
Elizabeth. Ay, tell the King that I 

will muse upon it ; 
He is my good friend, and I would 

keep him so ; 
But — he would have me Catholic of 

Rome, 
And that I scarce can be ; and, sir, till 

now 
My sister's marriage, and my father's 

marriages, 
Make me full fain to live and die a 

maid. 
But I am much beholden to your 

King. 
Have you aught else to tell me 1 

Feria. Nothing, Madam, 

Save that methought I gathered from 

the Queen 



762 



QUEEN MARY. 



That she would see your Grace before 

she — died. 
Elizabeth. God's death ! and where- 
fore spake you not before ? 
We dally with our lazy moments here, 
And hers are number'd. Horses 

there, without ! 
I am much beholden to the King, your 

'master. 
Why did you keep me prating ? 

Horses, there ! 

[Exit Elizabeth, etc. 
Feria. So from a clear sky falls the 

thunderbolt ! 
Don Carlos % Madam, if you marry 

Philip, 
Then I and he will snaffle your " God's 

death," 
And brake your paces in, and make 

you tame ; 
God's death, forsooth — you do not 

know King Philip. [Exit. 



SCENE IV.— London. Before 
the Palace. 

A light burning within. Voices of the 
night passing. 

First. Is not yon light in the 

Queen's chamber'? 
Second. Ay, 

They say she's dying. 

First. So is Cardinal Pole. 

May the great angels join their wings, 

and make 
Down for their heads to heaven ! 
Second. Ame^ Come on. 

[Exeunt. 

Two Others. 

First. There's the Queen's light. 

I hear she cannot live. 
Second. God curse her and her 

Legate ! Gardiner burns 
Already; but to pay them full in kind, 
The hottest hold in all the devil's den 
Were but a sort of winter ; sir, in 

Guernsey, 
I watch'd a woman burn ; and in her 

agony 



The mother came upon her — a child 

was born — 
And, sir, they hurl'd it back into the 

fire, 
That, being but baptised in fire, the 

babe 
Might be in fire for ever. Ah, good 

neighbor, 
There should be something fierier than 

fire 
To yield them their deserts. 

First. Amen to all. 

Your wish, and further. 

A Third Voice. Deserts ! Amen to 
what 1 Whose deserts ? Yours 1 
You have a gold ring on your finger, 
and soft raiment about your body; 
and is not the woman up yonder sleep- 
ing after all she has done, in peace and 
quietness, on a soft bed, in a closed 
room, with light, fire, physic, tend- 
ance ; and I have seen the true men 
of Christ lying famine-dead by scores, 
and under no ceiling but the cloud that 
wept on them, not for them. 

First. Friend, tho' so late, it is not 

safe to preach. 
You had best go home. What are 

you? 
Third. What am I ? One who cries 
continually with sweat and tears to 
the Lord God that it would please Him 
out of His infinite love to break down 
all kingship and queenship, all priest- 
hood and prelacy; to cancel and 
abolish all bonds of human allegiance, 
all the magistracy, all the nobles, and 
all the wealthy ; and to send us again, 
according to His promise, the one King, 
the Christ, and all things in common, 
as in the day of the first church, when 
Christ Jesus was King. 

First. If ever I heard a madman, 

— let's away ! 
Why, you long-winded Sir, you 

go beyond me. 
T pride myself on being moderate. 
Good night ! Go home. Besides, you 

curse so loud, 
The watch will hear you. Get you 

home at once. [Exeunt. 



QUEEN MARY. 



763 



SCENE V.— London. A Room in 
the Palace. 

A Gallery on one side. The moonlight 
streaming through a range of windows 
on the wall opposite. Mary, Lady 
Clarence, Lady Magdalen 
Dacres, Alice. Queen pacing the 
Gallery. A writing-table in front. 
Queen comes to the table and writes 
and goes again, pacing the Gallery. 

Lady Clarence. Mine eyes are dim : 

what hath she written 1 read. 
Alice. "I am dying, Philip ; come 

to me." 
Lady Magdalen. There — up and 
down, poor lady, up and down. 
Alice. And how her shadow crosses 
one by one 
The moonlight casements pattern'd on 

the wall, 
Following her like her sorrow. She 
turns again. 
[Queen sits and writes, and goes again. 
Lady Clarence. What hath she 

written now 1 
Alice. Nothing ; but " come, come, 
come," and all awry, 
And blotted by her tears. This can- 
not last. [Queen returns. 
Mary. I whistle to the bird has 
broken cage, 
And all in vain. [Sitting down. 
Calais gone — Guisnes gone, too — 
and Philip gone ! 
Lady Clarence. Dear Madam, Philip 
is but at the wars ; 
I cannot doubt but that he comes 

again ; 
And he is with you in a measure still. 
I never look'd upon so fair a likeness 
As your great King in armor there, 

his hand 
Upon his helmet. 

[Pointing to the portrait of Philip on 

the vail. 
Mar ii. Doth he not look noble 7 
I had heard of him in battle over 

seas, 
And I would have my warrior all in 
arn 



He said it was not courtly to stand 

helmeted 
Before the Queen. He had his gra- 
cious moment, 
Altho' you'll not believe me. How 

he smiles 
As if he loved me yet ! 

Lady Clarence. And so he does. 

Mary. He never loved me — nay, 

he could not love me. 
It was his father's policy against 

France. 
I am eleven years older than he, 
Poor boy ! [ Weeps. 

Alice. That was a lusty boy of 

twenty-seven ; [Aside. 

Poor enough in God's grace ! 

Mary. — And all in vain 

The Queen of Scots is married to the 

Dauphin, 
And Charles, the lord of this low 

world, is gone ; 
And all his wars and wisdoms past 

away ; 
And in a moment I shall follow 

him. 
Lady Clarence. Nay, dearest Lady, 

see your good physician. 
Mary, Drugs — but he knows they 

cannot help me — says 
That rest is all — tells me I must not 

think — 
That I must rest — I shall rest by and 

by- 

Catch the wild cat, cage him, and when 

he springs 
And maims himself against the bars, 

say " rest" : 
Why, you must kill him if you would 

have him rest — 
Dead or alive you cannot make him 

happy. 
Lady Clarence. Your Majesty has 

lived so pure a life, 
And done such mighty things by Holy 

Church, 
I trust that God will make you happy 

yet. 
Mary. What is the strange thing 

happiness 'i Sit down here: 
Tell me thine happiest hour 

Lady Clarence. I will, :f trat 



764 



QUEEN MARY. 



May make your Grace forget yourself 

a little. 
There runs a shallow brook across our 

field 
For twenty miles, where the black 

crow flies five, 
And doth so bound and babble all the 

way 
As if itself were happy. It was May- 
time, 
And I was walking with the man I 

loved. 
I loved him, but I thought I was not 

loved. 
And both were silent, letting the wild 

brook 
Speak for us — till he stoop'd and 

gather'd one 
From out a bed of thick forget-me-nots, 
Look'd hard and sweet at me, and 

gave it me. 
I took it, tho' I did not know I took it, 
And put it in my bosom, and all at 

once 
I felt his arms about me, and his lips — 
Mary. O God ! I have been too 

slack, too slack ; 
There are Hot Gospellers even among 

our guards — 
Nobles we dared not touch. We have 

but burnt 
The heretic priest, workmen, and 

women and children. 
Wet, famine, ague, fever, storm, 

wreck, wrath, — 
We have so play'd the coward ; but by 

God's grace, 
We'll follow Philip's leading, and set 

up 
The Holy Office here — garner the 

wheat, 
And burn the tares with unquenchable 

fire ! 
Burn ! — 
Fie, what a savor ! tell the cooks to 

close 
The doors of all the offices below. 
Latimer ! 
Sir, we are private with our women 

here — 
Ever a rough, blunt, and uncourtly 

fellow — 



Thou light a torch that never will go 

out! 
'Tis out — mine flames Women, the 

Holy Father 
Has ta'en the legateship from our 

cousin Pole — 
Was that well done ? and poor Pole 

pines of it, 
As I do, to the death. I am but a 

woman, 
I have no power. — Ah, weak and 

meek old man, 
Seven-fold dishonor'd even in the 

sight 
Of thine own sectaries — No, no. No 

pardon ! — 
Why that was false : there is the right 

hand still 
Beckons me hence. 
Sir, you were burnt for heresy, not for 

treason, 
Remember that ! 'twas I and Bonner 

did it, 
And Pole ; we are three to one — Have 

you found mercy there, 
Grant it me here : and see, he smiles 

and goes, 
Gentle as in life. 

Alice. Madam, who goes ? King 

Philip ? 
Mary. No, Philip comes and goes. 

but never goes. 
Women, when I am dead, 
Open my heart, and there you will 

find written 
Two names, Philip and Calais ; open 

his, — 
So that he have one, — 
You will find Philip only, policy, pol- 
icy, — 
Ay, worse than that — not one hour 

true to me ! 
Foul maggots crawling in a fester'd 

vice ! 
Adulterous to the very heart of Hell. 
Hast thou a knife % 
- Alice. Ay, Madam, but o' God's 

mercy — 
Mary. Fool, think'st thou I would 

peril mine own soul 
By slaughter of the body ? I could 

not, girl, 



QUEEN MARY. 



765 



Not this way — callous with a constant 

stripe, 
Unwoimdable. The knife ! 

Alice. Take heed, take heed ! 

The blade is keen as death. 

Man/, This Philip shall not 

Stare in upon me in my haggardness ; 
Old, miserable, diseased, 
Incapable of children. Come thou 
down. 

tCats out the picture and throws it down. 
,ie there. (Wails) God, I have 
kill'd my Philip ! 
Alice. No, 

Madam, you have but cut the canvas 

out ; 
We can replace it. 

Man/. All is well then; rest — 

I will to rest ; he said, I must have 
rest. [ Cries of " Elizabeth " in 
the street. 
A cry ! What's that ? Elizabeth ? re- 
volt ? 
A new Northumberland, another 

Wyatt ? 
I'll fight it on the threshold of the 
grave. 
Lady Clarence. Madam, your royal 

sister comes to see you. 
Man/. I will not see her. 
Who knows if Boleyn's daughter be 

my sister ? 
I will see none except the priest. Your 
arm. [To Lady Clarence. 

Saint of Aragon, with that sweet 

worn smile 
Among thy patient wrinkles — Help 
me hence. [Exeunt. 

The Priest passes. Enter Elizabeth 
and Sir William Cecil. 

Elizabeth. Good counsel yours — 

No one in waiting 1 still, 
As if the chamberlain were Death 

himself! 
The room she sleeps in — is not this 

the way ? 
No, that way there are voices. Am I 

too late ? 
Cecil . . . God guide me lest I lose 

the way. [Exit Elizabeth. 



Cecil. 'Many points weather'd, many 
perilous ones, 
At last a harbor opens; but therein 
Sunk rocks — they need fine steering 

— much it is 

To be nor mad, nor bigot — have a 
mind — 

Nor let the Priests talk, or dream of 
worlds to be, 

Miscolor things about her — sudden 
touches 

For him, or him — sunk rocks; no 
passionate faith — 

But — if let be — balance and com- 
promise ; 

Brave, wary, sane to the heart of her 

— a Tudor 

School'd by the shadow of death — a 

Boleyn, too, 
Glancing across the Tudor — not so 

well. 

Enter Alice. 
How is the good Queen now ? 

Alice. Away from Philip. 

Back in her childhood — prattling to 

her mother 
Of her betrothal to the Emperor 

Charles, 
And childlike-jealous of him again — 

and once 
She thank'd her father sweetly for his 

book 
Against that godless German. Ah, 

those days 
Were happy. It was never merry 

world 
In England, since the Bible came 

among us. 
Cecil. And who says that ? 
Alice. It is a saying among the 

Catholics. 
Cecil. It never will be merry world 

in England, 
Till all men have their Bible, rich and 

poor. 
Alice. The Queen is dying, or you 

dare not say it. 

Enter Elizabeth. 
Elizabeth. The Queen is dead. 
Cecil. Then here she stands ! my 
homage. 



766 



QUEEN MARY. 



Elizabeth. She knew me, and ac- 
knowledged me her heir, 

Pray'd me to pay her debts, and keep 
the Faith; 

Then elaspt the cross, and pass'd 
away in peace. 

I left her lying still and beautiful, 

Morebeautifulthaninlife. Why would 
you vex yourself, 

Poor sister ? Sir, I swear I have no 
heart 

To be your Queen. To reign is rest- 
less fence, 

Tierce, quart, and trickery. Peace is 
with the dead. 

Her life was winter, for her spring 
was nipt : 

And she loved much : pray God she 
be forgiven. 
Cecil. Peace with the dead, who 
never were at peace 1 



Yet she loved one so much — I needs 

must say — 
That never English monarch dying left 

England so little. 
Elizabeth. But with Cecil's aid 

And others, if our person be secured 
From traitor stabs — we will make 

England great. 

Enter Paget, and other Lords of the 
Council, Sir Ralph Bagenhall, 

etc. 

Lords. God save Elizabeth, the 

Queen of England ! 
Bagenhall. God save the Crown ! 

the Papacy is no more. 
Paget (aside). Are we so sure of 

that? 
Acclamation. God save the Queen! 



HAROLD : 

A DRAMA. 

To His Excellency 

THE RIGHT HON. LORD LYTTON, 

Viceroy and Governor- General of India. 

My dear Lord Lttton, — After old-world records — such as the Bayeux tapestry and 
the Roman de Rou, — Edward Freeman's History of the Norman Conquest, and your 
father's Historical Romance treating of the same times, have been mainly helpful to me in 
writing this Drama. Your father dedicated his " Harold " to my father's brother; allow me 
to dedicate my " Harold " to yourself. A. TENNYSON. 



SHOW-DAY AT BATTLE ABBEY, 1876. 

A garden here — May breath and bloom of spring — 

The cuckoo yonder from an English elm 

Crying " with my false egg I overwhelm 

The native nest : " and fancy hears the ring 

Of harness, and that deathful arrow sing, 

And Saxon battleaxe clang on Norman helm. 

Here rose the dragon-banner of our realm : 

Here fought, here fell, our Norman slander'd king. 

Garden blossoming out of English blood ! 

O strange hate-healer Time ! We stroll and stare 

Where might made right eight hundred years ago; 

Might, right 1 ay good, so all things make for good — 

But he and he, if soul be soul, are where 

Each stands full face with all he did below. 



Sons of 
' Godwin. 



DRAMATIS PERSONA?. 
King Edward the Confessor. 

Stigand, created Archbishop of Canterbury by the Anti-pope Benedict. 
Aldred, Archbishop of York. The Norman Bishop of LondoNc 

Harold, Earl of Wessex, afterwards King of England 
Tostig, Earl of Northumbria 
Gurth, Earl of East Anglia 
Leofwin, Earl of Kent and Essex 
Wulfnotii 

Count William of Normandy. William Rufus. 

William Malet, a Norman Noble. 1 

Edwin, Earl of Mercia ) Sons of Alfgar of 

Morcar, Earl of Northumbria after Tostig ) Mercia. 

Gamel, a Northumbrian Thane. Guy, Count of Ponthieu. 

Rolf, a Ponthieu Fisherman. Hugh Margot, a Norman Monk. 

0&GOD and Athelric, Canons from Waltham. 
The Queen, Edward the Confessor's Wife, Daughter of Godwin. 
Aldwyth, Daughter of Alfgar and Widow of Grijfyth, King of Wales. 
Edith, Ward of King Edward. 

Courtiers, Earls and Thanes, Men-at-Arms, Canons of Waltham, 
Fishermen, etc. 

1 . . . quidam parti m Normannus et Anglus 
Computer Heraldi. {Guy of Amiens, 587.) 



768 



HAROLD. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. — London. The . King's 
Palace. 

(.A comet seen through the open window.) 

Aldwyth, Gamel, Courtiers talking 
together. 

First Courtier. Lo ! there once more 
— this is the seventh night! 
You grimly-glaring, treble-brandish'd 

scourge 
Of England! 

Second Courtier. Horrible ! 
First Courtier. Look you, there's 
a star 
That dances in it as mad with agony ! 
Third Courtier. Ay, like a spirit in 
Hell who skips and flies 
To right and left, and cannot scape 
the flame. 
Second Courtier. Steam'd upward 
from the undescendable 
Abysm. 

First Courtier. Or floated down- 
ward from the throne 
Of God Almighty. 

Aldwyth. Gamel, son of Orm, 

What thinkest thou this means 1 
Gamel. War, my dear lady ! 

Aldwyth. Doth this affright thee ? 
Gamel. Mightily, my dear lady ! 
Aldwyth. Stand by me then, and 
look upon my face, 
Not on the comet. 

(Enter Morcar.) 

Brother ! why so pale ? 

Morcar. It glares in heaven, it 

flares upon the Thames, 

The people are as thick as bees below, 

They hum like bees, — they cannot 

speak — for awe ; 
Look to the skies, then to the river, 

strike 
Their hearts, and hold their babies up 

to it. 
I think that they would Molochize 

them too, 
To have the heavens clear. 



Aldwyth. They fright not me 

(Enter Leofwin, after him Gurth.) 

Ask thou Lord Leofwin what he 
thinks of this ! 
Morcar. Lord Leofwin, dost thou 
believe, that these 
Three rods of blood-red fire up yon • 

der mean 
The doom of England and the wrath 
of Heaven ? 
Bishop of London (passing). Did ye 
not cast with bestial violence 
Our holy Norman bishops down from 

all 
Their thrones in England ? I alone 

remain. 
Why should not Heaven be wroth 1 
Leofwin. With us, or thee ? 

Bishop of London. Did ye not out- 
law your archbishop Robert, 
Robert of Jumieges — well-nigh mur- 
der him too 1 
Is there no reason for the wrath of 
Heaven ? 
Leofwin. Why then the wrath of 
Heaven hath three tails, 
The devil only one. 

[Exit Bishop of London. 

(Enter Archbishop Stigand.) 

Ask our Archbishop. 
Stigand should know the purposes of 
Heaven. 
Stigand. Not I. I cannot read the 
face of heaven ; 
Perhaps our vines will grow the better 
for it. 
Leofwin (laughing). He can but read 

the king's face on his coins. 
Stigand. Ay, ay, young lord, there 

the king's face is power. 
Gurth. O father, mock not at a 
public fear, 
But tell us, is this pendent hell in 

heaven 
A harm to England ? 

Stigand. Ask it of King Edward ! 
And he may tell thee, / am a harm to 

England. 
Old uncanonical Stigand — ask of me 



HAROLD. 



769 



"Who had my pallium from an Anti- 
pope ! 
Not he the man — for in our windy 

world 
What's up is faith, what's down is 

heresy. 
Our friends, the Normans, holp to 

shake his chair. 
I have a Norman fever on me, son, 
And cannot answer sanely . . . What 

it means ? 
Ask our broad Earl. 

{Pointing to Harold, icho enters. 
Harold {seeing Gamel). Hail, Ga- 

mel, son of Orm ! 
Albeit no rolling stone, my good friend 

Gamel, 
Thou hast rounded since we met. 

Thy life at home 
Is easier than mine here. Look! am 

I not 
Work-wan, flesh-fallen ? 

Gamel. Art thou sick, good 

Earl ? 
Harold. Sick as an autumn swal- 
low for a voyage, 
Sick for an idle week of hawk and 

hound 
Beyond the seas — a change ! When 

earnest thou hither ? 
Gamel. To-day, good Earl. 
Harold. Is the North quiet, Gamel ? 
Gamel. Nay, there be murmurs, for 

thy brother breaks us 
With over-taxing — quiet, ay, as yet — 
Nothing as yet. 

Harold. Stand by him, mine old 

friend, 
Thou art a great voice in Northum- 
berland ! 
Advise him : speak him sweetly, he 

will hear thee. 
He is passionate but honest. Stand 

thou by him ! 
More talk of this to-morrow, if yon 

weird sign 
Not blast us in our dreams. — Well, 

father Stigand — 
[To Stigand, icho advances to him. 
Stigand (j>ointing to the comet). War 

there, my son ? is that the doom 

of England ? 



Harold. Why not the doom of all 

the world as well ? 
Eor all the world sees it as well as 

England. 
These meteors came and went before 

our day, 
Not harming any : it threatens us no 

more 
Than French or Norman. War ? the 

worst that follows 
Things that seem'd jerk'd out of the 

common rut 
Of Nature is the hot religious fool, 
Who, seeing war in heaven, for 

heaven's credit 
Makes it on earth : but look, where 

Edward draws 
A faint foot hither, leaning upon Tos- 

tig. 
He hath learnt to love our Tostig 

much of late. 
Leo/win. And he hath learnt, de- 
spite the tiger in him, 
To sleek and supple himself to the 

king's hand. 
Gurth. I trust the kingly touch 

that cures the evil 
May serve to charm the tiger out of 

him. 
Leo/win. He hath as much of cat 

as tiger in him. 
Our Tostig loves the hand and not 

the man. 
Harold. Nay ! Better die than lie ! 

Enter King, Queen, and Tostig. 
Edward. In heaven signs ! 

Signs upon earth ! signs everywhere ! 

your Priests 
Gross, worldly, simoniacal, unlearn'd! 
They scarce can read their Psalter; 

and your churches 
Uncouth, unhandsome, while in Nor- 

manland 
God speaks thro' abler voices, as He 

dwells 
In statelier shrines. I say not this, 

as being 
Half Norman-blooded, nor as some 

have held, 
Because I love tbe Norman better — 

no, 



770 



HAROLD. 



But dreading God's revenge upon this 

realm 
For narrowness and coldness : and I 

say it 
For the last time perchance, before I 

go 
To find the sweet refreshment of the 

Saints. 
I have lived a life of utter purity : 
I have builded the great church of 

Holy Peter : 
I have wrought miracles — to God 

the glory — 
And miracles will in my name he 

wrought 
Hereafter. — I have fought the fight 

and go — 
I see the flashing of the gates of 

pearl — 
And it is well with me, tho' some of 

you 
Have scorn'd me — ay — but after I 

am gone 
Woe, woe to England ! I have had a 

vision ; 
The seven sleepers in the cave at 

Ephesus 
Have turn'd from right to left. 

Harold. My most dear Master, 

What matters 1 let them turn from 

left to right 
And sleep again. 

Tostig. Too hardy with thy king ! 
A life of prayer and fasting well may 

see 
Deeper into the mysteries of heaven 
Than thou, good brother. 

Aldwijth (aside). Sees he into thine, 
That thou wouldst have his promise 

for the crown ? 
Edward. Tostig says true ; my son, 

thou art too hard, 
Not stagger'd by this ominous earth 

and heaven : 
But heaven and earth are threads of 

the same loom, 
Play into one another, and weave the 

web 
That may confound thee yet. 

Harold. Nay, I trust not, 

For I have served thee long and 

honestly. 



Edward. I know it, son ; I am not 
thankless : thou 
Hast broken all my foes, lighten'd for 

me 
The weight of this poor crown, and 

left me time 
And peace for prayer to gain a better 

one. 
Twelve years of service ! England 

loves thee for it. 
Thou art the man to rule her ! 

Aldwyth (aside). So, not Tostig! 

Harold. And after those twelve 
years a boon, my king, 
Respite, a holiday : thyself wast 

wont 
To love the chase : thy leave to set 

my feet » 

On board, and hunt and hawk beyond 
the seas ! 
Edward. What with this flaming 

horror overhead 1 
Harold. Well, when it passes then. 
Edward. Ay, if it pass. 

Go not to Normandy — go not to Nor- 
mandy. 
Harold. And wherefore not, my 
king, to Normandy ? 
Is not my brother Wulfnoth hostage 

there 
For my dead father's loyalty to thee ? 
I pray thee, let me hence and bring 
him home. 
Edward. Not thee, my son : some 

other messenger. 
Harold. And why not me, my lord, 
to Normandy ? 
Is not the Norman Count thy friend 
and mine 1 
Edward. I pray thee, do not go to 

Normandy. 
Harold. Because my father drove 
the Normans out 
Of England? — That was many a 

summer gone — 
Forgotten and forgiven by them and 
thee. 
Edward. Harold, I will not yield 

thee leave to go. 
Harold. Why then to Flanders. I 
will hawk and hunt 
In Flanders. 



HAROLD. 



771 



Edward. Be there not fair woods 

and fields 
In England ! Wilful, wilful. Go — 

the Saints 
Pilot and prosper all thy wandering 

out 
And homeward. Tostig, I am faint 

again. 
Son Harold. I will in and pray for 

thee. 
[Exit, lean in;/ on Tostig, and fol- 
lowed by Stigand, Morcar, and 

Court i i' rs . 
Harold. What lies upon the mind of 

our good king 
That he should harp this way on 

Normandy ? 
Queen. Brother, the king is wiser 

than he seems ; 
And Tostig knows it ; Tostig loves 

the king. 
Harold. And love should know ; and 

— be the king so wise, — 
Then Tostig too were wiser than he 

seems. 
I love the man but not his phantasies. 

(Re-enter Tostig.) 
Well, brother, 

When didst thou hear from thy 
North umbria ? 
Tostig. When did I hear aught but 
this " When " from thee 1 
Leave me alone, brother, with my 

Northumbria : 
She is my mistress, let me look to her! 
The King hath made me Earl ; make 

me not fool ! 
Nor make the King a fool, who made 
me Earl ! 
Harold. No, Tostig — lest I make 
myself a fool 
Who made the King who made thee, 
make thee Earl. 
Tostig. Why chafe me then? Thou 

knowest I soon go wild. 
Gurth. Come, come ! as yet thou art 
not gone so wild 
But thou canst hear the best and 
wisest of us. 
Harold. So says old Gurth, not I : 
yet hear! thine earldom, 



Tostig, hath been a kingdom. Their 

old crown 
Is yet a force among them, a sun 

set 
But leaving light enough for Alfgar's 

house 
To strike thee down by — nay, this 

ghastly glare 
May heat their fancies. 

Tostig. My most worthy brother, 
Thou art the quietest man in all the 

world — 
Ay, ay and wise in peace and great in 

war — 
Pray God the people choose thee for 

their king ! 
But all the powers of the house of 

Godwin 
Are not enframed in thee. 

Harold. Thank the Saints, no ! 

But thou hast drain'd them shallow 

by thy tolls, 
And thou art ever here about the 

King: 
Thine absence well may seem a want 

of care. 
Cling to their love ; for, now the sons 

of Godwin 
Sit topmost in the field of England, 

envy, 
Like the rough bear beneath the tree, 

good brother, 
Waits till the man let go. 

Tostig. Good counsel truly ! 

I heard from my Northumbria yester- 
day. 
Harold. How goes it then with thy 

Northumbria ? Well ? 
Tostig. And wouldst thou that it 

went aught else than well ? 
Harold. I would it went as well as 

with mine earldom, 
Leofwin's and Gurth's. 

Tostig. Ye govern milder men. 

Gurth. We have made them milder 

by just government. 
Tostig. Ay, ever give yourselves 

your own good word. 
Leofwin. An honest gift, by all the 

Saints, if giver 
And taker be but honest ! but they 

bribe 



772 



HAROLD. 



Each other, and so often, an honest 

world 
Will not believe them. 

Harold. I may tell thee, Tostig, 
I heard from thy Northumberland 
to-day. 
Tostig. From spies of thine to spy 
my nakedness 
In my poor North ! 

Harold. There is a movement there, 
A blind one — nothing yet. 

Tostig. Crush it at once 

With all the power I have! — I must 

— I will ! — 
Crush it half-born ! Fool still ? or 

wisdom there, 
My wise head-shaking Harold 1 

Harold. Make not thou 

The nothing something. Wisdom 

when in power 
And wisest, should not frown as 

Power, but smile 
As kindness, watching all, till the true 

must 
Shall make her strike as Power: but 

when to strike — 
O Tostig, O dear brother — If they 

prance, 
Rein in, not lash them, lest they rear 

and run, 
And break both neck and axle. 

Tostig. Good again ! 

Good counsel tho' scarce needed. Pour 

not water 
In the full vessel running out at 

top 
To swamp the house. 

Leo/win. Nor thou be a wild thing 
Out of the waste, to turn and bite the 

hand 
Would help thee from the trap. 

Tostig. Thou playest in tune. 

Leo/win. To the deaf adder thee, 
that wilt not dance 
However wisely charm'd. 

Tostig. No more, no more ! 

Gurth. I likewise cry "no more." 
Unwholesome talk 
For Godwin's house ! Leofwin, thou 

hast a tongue ! 
Tostig, thou look'st as thou wouldst 
spring upon him. 



St. Olaf, not while I am by ! Come, 

come, 
Join hands, let brethren dwell in unity ; 
Let kith and kin stand close as our 

shield-wall, 
Who breaks us then ? I say, thou hast 

a tongue, 
And Tostig is not stout enough to bear 

it. 
Vex him not, Leofwin. 

Tostig. No, I am not vext, — 

Altho' ye seek to vex me, one and all. 
I have to make report of my good 

earldom 
To the good king who gave it — not 

to you — 
Not any of you. — I am not vext at all. 
Harold. The king 1 the king is ever 

at his prayers ; 
In all that handles matter of the 

state 
I am the king. 

Tostig. That shalt thou never be 
If I can thwart thee. 

Harold. Brother, brother! 

Tostig. Away ! 

[Exit Tostig. 
Queen. Spite of this grisly star ye 

three must gall 
Poor Tostig. 

Leofwin. Tostig, sister, galls him- 
self ; 
He cannot smell a rose but pricks his 

nose 
Against the thorn, and rails against 

the rose. 
Queen. I am the only rose of all the 

stock 
That never thorn'd him ; Edward 

loves him, so 
Ye hate him. Harold always hated 

him. 
Why — how they fought when boys 

— and, Holy Mary ! 
How Harold used to beat him ! 

Harold. Why, boys will fight. 

Leofwin would often fight me, and I 

beat him. 
Even old Gurth would fight. I had 

much ado 
To hold mine own against old Gurth. 

Old Gurth, 



HAROLD. 



773 



We fought like great states for grave 

cause ; but Tostig — 
On a sudden — at a something — for a 

nothing — 
The boy would fist me hard, and when 

we fought 
I conquered, and he loved me none the 

less, 
Till thou wouldst get him all apart, 

and tell him 
That where he was but worsted, he 

was wrong'd. 
Ah! thou hast taught the king to 

spoil him too ; 
Now the spoilt child sways both. Take 

heed, take heed ; 
Thou art the Queen ; ye are boy and 

girl no more : 
Side not with Tostig in any violence, 
Lest thou be sideways guilty of the 
violence. 
Queen. Come fall not foul on me. 

I leave thee, brother. 
Harold. Nay, my good sister — 
[Exeunt Queen, Harold, Gurth, awe? 
Leofwin. 
Aldwyth. Gamel, son of Orm, 

What thinkest thou this means 1 

[Pointing to the comet. 
Gamel. War, my dear laay, 

War, waste, plague, famine, all malig- 
nities. 
Aldwyth. It means the fall of Tos- 
tig from his earldom. 
Gamel. That were too small a mat- 
ter for a comet ! 
Aldwyth. It means the lifting of the 

house of Alfgar. 
Gamel. Too small ! a comet would 

not show for that ! 
Aldwyth. Not small for thee, if thou 

canst compass it. 
Gamel. Thy love ? 
Aldwyth. As much as I can 

give thee, man ; 
This Tostig is, or like to be, a tyrant ; 
Stir up thy people : oust him ! 

Gamel. And thy love ? 

Aldwyth. As much as thou canst bear. 
Gamel. I can bear all, 

And not be giddy. 

Aldwyth, No more now : to-morrow. 



SCENE II. — In the Garden. The 
King's House near London. Sun- 
set. 

Edith. Mad for thy mate, passion- 
ate nightingale . . . 

I love thee for it — ay, but stay a mo- 
ment ; 

He can but stay a moment : he is go- 
ing. 

I fain would hear him coming ! . . . 
near me . . near, 

Somewhere — To draw him nearer 
with a charm 

Like thine to thine. 

(Singing.) 

Love is come with a song and a smile, 

Welcome Love with a smile and a 
song: 

Love can stay but a little while. 

Why cannot he stay 1 They call him 
away : 

Ye do him wrong, ye do him wrong ; 

Love will stay for a whole life long. 

Enter Harold. 
Harold. The nightingales at Hav- 
ering-in-the-bower 
Sang out their loves so loud, that Ed- 
ward's prayers 
Were deafen'd and he rjray'd them 

dumb, and thus 
I dumb thee too, my wingless night- 
ingale ! [Kissing her. 
Edith. Thou art my music ! Would 
their wings were mine 
To follow thee to Flanders ! Must 
thou go ? 
Harold. Not must, but will. It is 

but for one moon. 
Edith. Leaving so many foes in 
Edward's hall 
To league against thy weal. The Lady 

Aldwyth 
Was here to-day, and when she touch'd 

on thee, 
She stammer'd in her hate ; I am sure 

she hates thee, 
Pants for thy blood. 

Harold. Well, I have given her 

cause — 
I fear no woman. 



774 



HAROLD. 



Edith. Hate not one who felt 

Some pity for thy hater ! I am sure 
Her morning wanted sunlight, she so 

praised 
The convent and lone life — within 

the pale — 
Beyond the passion. Nay — she held 

with Edward, 
At least methought she held with holy 

Edward, 
That marriage was half sin. 

Harold. A lesson worth 

Finger and thumb — thus ( snaps his 

fingers). And my answer to it — 
See here — an interwoven H and E ! 
Take thou this ring ; I will demand 

his ward 
From Edward when I come again. 

Ay, would she 1 
She to shut up my blossom in the dark ! 
Thou art my nun, thy cloister in mine 

arms. 
Edith [taking the ring). Yea, but 

Earl Tostig — 
Harold. That's a truer fear ! 

For if the North take fire, I should be 

back ; 
I shall be, soon enough. 

Edith. Ay, but last night 

An evil dream that ever came and 

went — 
Harold. A gnat that vext thy pil- 
low ! Had I been by, 
I would have spoiPd his horn. My 

girl, what was it 1 
Edith. Oh! that thou wert not go- 
ing! 
For so methought it was our marriage- 
morn, 
And while we stood together, a dead 

man 
Kose from behind the altar, tore away 
My marriage ring, and rent my bridal 

veil; 
And then I turn'd, and saw the church 

all fill'd 
With dead men upright from their 

graves, and all 
The dead men made at thee to murder 

thee, 
But thou didst back thyself against a 

pillar, 



And strike among them with thy bat- 
tle-axe — 
There, what a dream ! 

Harold. Well, well — a dream — 

no more ! 
Edith. Did not Heaven speak to 

men in dreams of old ? 
Harold. Ay — well — of old. I 

tell thee what, my child ; 
Thou hast misread this merry dream 

of thine, 
Taken the rifted pillars of the wood 
For smooth stone columns of the sanc- 
tuary, 
The shadows of a hundred fat dead deer 
For dead men's ghosts. True, that the 

battle-axe 
Was out of place ; it should have been 

the bow. — 
Come, thou shalt dream no more such 

dreams ; I swear it, 
By mine own eyes — and these two 

sapphires — these 
Twin rubies, that are amulets against all 
The kisses of all kind of womankind 
In Flanders, till the sea shall roll me 

back 
To tumble at thy feet. 

Edith. That would but shame me, 
Rather than make me vain. The sea 

may roll 
Sand, shingle, shore-weed, not the liv- 
ing rock 
Which guards the land. 

Harold. Except it be a soft one 
And undereaten to the fall. Mine 

amulet . . . 
This last . . . upon thine eyelids, to 

shut in 
A happier dream. Sleep, sleep, and 

thou shalt see 
My greyhounds fleeting like a beam 

of light, 
And hear my peregrine and her bells 

in heaven ; 
And other bells on earth, which yet 

are heaven's ; 
Guess what they be. 

Edith. He cannot guess who knows. 
Farewell, my king. 

Harold. Not yet, but then — my 

queen. [Exeunt. 



HAROLD. 



775 



Enter AuDWTTH from the thicket. 

Aldwyth. The kiss that charms 

thine eyelids into sleep, 
Will hold mine waking. Hate him ? 

I could love him 
More, tenfold, than this fearful child 

can do ; 
Griffyth I hated: why not hate the foe 
Of England ? Griffyth when I saw 

him flee, 
Chased deer-like up his mountains, all 

the blood 
That should have only pulsed for Grif- 
fyth, beat 
For his pursuer. I love him or think 

I love him. 
If he were King of England, I his queen, 
I might be sure of it. Nay, I do love 

him. — 
She must be cloister'd somehow, lest 

the king 
Should yield his ward to Harold's will. 

What harm ? 
She hath but blood enough to live, not 

love. — 
When Harold goes and Tostig, shall 

I play 
The craftier Tostig with him? fawn 

upon him ? 
Chime in with all ? " O thou more 

saint than king ! " 
And that were true enough. " O 

blessed relics ! " 
u O Holy Peter!" If he found me thus, 
Harold might hate me ; he is broad 

and honest, 
Breathing an easy gladness . . . not 

like Aldwyth . . . 
For which I strangely love him. 

Should not England 
Love Aldwyth, if she stays the feuds 

that part 
The sons of Godwin from the sons of 

Alfgar 
By such a marrying 1 Courage, noble 

Aldwyth ! 
Let all thy people bless thee ! 

Our wild Tostig, 
Edward hath made him Earl : he 

would be king : — 



The dog that snapt the shadow, dropt 

the bone. — 
I trust he may do well, this Gamel, 

whom 
I play upon, that he may play the note 
Whereat the dog shall howl and run, 

and Harold 
Hear the king's music, all alone with 

him, 
Pronounced his heir of England. 
I see the goal and half the way to it. — 
Peace-lover is our Harold for the 

sake 
Of England's wholeness — so — to 

shake the North 
With earthquake and disruption — 

some division — 
Then fling mine own fair person in the 

gap 
A sacrifice to Harold, a peace-offering, 
A scape-goat marriage — all the sins 

of both 
The houses on mine head — then a 

fair life 
And bless the Queen of England. 
Morcar (coming from the thicket). Art 

thou assured 
By this, that Harold loves but Edith ? 
Aldwyth. Morcar ! 

Why creep'st thou like a timorous 

beast of prey 
Out of the bush by night ? 

Morcar. I follow'd thee. 

Aldwyth. Follow my lead, and I 

will make thee earl. 
Morcar. What lead then ? 
Aldwyth. Thou shalt flash it secretly 
Among the good Northumbrian folk, 

that I — 
That Harold loves me — yea, and pres- 
ently 
That I and Harold are betroth'd — -and 

last — 
Perchance that Harold wrongs me ; 

tho' I would not 
That it should come to that. 

Morcar. . I will both flash 

And thunder for thee. 

Aldwyth. I said " secretly " ; 

It is the flash that murders, the poor 

thunder 
Never harm'd head. 



776 



HAROLD, 



Morcar. But thunder may bring 
down 
That which the flash hath stricken. 

Aldwyth. Down with Tostig ! 

That first of all. — And when doth 
Harold go !? 
Morcar. To-morrow — first to Bos- 
ham, then to Flanders. 
Aldwyth. Not to come back till 
Tostig shall have shown 
And redden'd with his people's blood 

the teeth 
That shall be broken by us — yea, and 

thou 
Chair'd in his place. Good-night, and 

dream thyself 
Their chosen Earl. [Exit Aldwyth. 
Morcar. Earl first, and after that 
Who knows I may not dream myself 
their king ! 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. — Seashore. Ponthieu. 
Night. 

Harold and his Men, wrecked. 

Harold. Eriends, in that last inhos- 
pitable plunge 

Our boat hath burst her ribs ; but ours 
are whole ; 

I have but bark'd my hands. 

Attendant. I dug mine into 

My old fast friend the shore, and cling- 
ing thus 

Felt the remorseless outdraught of the 
deep 

Haul like a great strong fellow at my 
legs, 

And then I rose and ran. The blast 
that came 

So suddenly hath fallen as suddenly — 

Put thou the comet and this blast to- 
gether — 
Harold. Put thou thyself and 
mother-wit together. 

Be not a fool ! 

[Enter Fishermen with torches, Harold 
going up to one of them, Rolf.) 



Wicked sea-will-o'-the-wisp ! 
Wolf of the shore ! dog, with thy ly- 
ing lights 
Thou hast betray'd us on these rocks 
of thine ! 
Rolf. Ay, but thou liest as loud as 
the black herring-pond behind thee. 
We be fishermen ; I came to see after 
my nets. 

Harold. To drag us into them. 
Fishermen ? devils ! 
Who, while ye fish for men with your 

false fires, 
Let the great Devil fish for your own 
souls. 
Bolf Nay then, we be liker the 
blessed Apostles ; they were fishers of 
men, Father Jean says. 

Harold. I had liefer that the fish 
had swallowed me, 
Like Jonah, than have known there 

were such devils. 
What's to be done 1 

[To his Men — goes apart with them. 
Fisherman. Rolf, what fish did 

swallow Jonah ? 
Rolf. A whale ! 

Fisherman. Then a whale to a whelk 
we have swallowed the King of Eng- 
land. I saw him over there. Look 
thee, Rolf, when I was down in the 
fever, she was down with the hunger, 
and thou didst stand by her and give 
her thy crabs, and set her up again, 
till now, by the patient Saints, she's 
as crabb'd as ever. 

Rolf. And I'll give her my crabs 
again, when thou art down again. 

Fisherman. I thank thee, Rolf. Run 
thou to Count Guy ; he is hard at hand. 
Tell him what hath crept into our 
creel, and he will fee thee as freely as 
he will wrench this outlander's ransom 
out of him — and why not 1 for what 
right had he to get himself wrecked 
on another man's land 1 

Rolf Thou art the human-hearted- 
est, Christian-charitiest of all crab- 
catchers. Share and share alike ! 

[Exit. 
Harold (to Fisherman). Fellow, 
dost thou catch crabs ? 



HAROLD. 



777 



Fisherman. As few as I may in a 
wind, and less than I would in a calm. 
Ay! 

Harold. I have a mind that thou 
shalt catch no more. 

Fisherman. How ? 

Harold. I have a mind to brain thee 
with mine axe. 

Fisherman. Ay, do, do, andour great 
Count-crab will make his nippers meet 
in thine heart ; he'll sweat it out of 
thee, he'll sweat it out of thee. Look, 
he's here ! He'll speak for himself ! 
Hold thine own, if thou canst ! 

Enter Guv, Count of Ponthieu. 

Harold. Guy, Count of Ponthieu ? 
Guy. Harold, Earl of Wessex ! 
Harold. Thy villains with their 

lying lights have wreck'd us ! 
Guy. Art thou not Earl of Wessex ? 
Harold. In mine earldom 

A man may hang gold bracelets on a 

bush, 
And leave them for a year, and com- 
ing back 
Find them again. 

Guy. Thou art a mighty man 

In thine own earldom ! 

Harold. Were such murderous liars 
In Wessex — if I caught them, they 

should hang 
Cliff-gibbeted for sea-marks ; our sea- 
mew -" 
Winging their only wail ! 

Guy. Ay, but my men 

Hold that the shipwreckt are accursed 

of God; — 
What hinders me to hold with mine 
own men ? 
Harold. The Christian manhood of 

the man who reigns ! 
Guy. Ay, rave thy worst, but in our 
oubliettes 
Thou shalt or rot or ransom. Hale 
him hence ! 

[To one of his Attendants. 
Fly thou to William; tell him we have 
Harold. 



SCENE II. — Bayeux. Palace. 

Count William and William 
Malet. 

William. We hold our Saxon wood- 
cock in the springe, 
But he begins to flutter. As I think 
He was thine host in England when I 

went 
To visit Edward. 

Malet. Yea, and there, my lord, 
To make allowance for their rougher 

fashions, 
I found him all a noble host should be. 
William. Thou art his friend : thou 
know'st my claim on England 
Thro' Edward's promise : we have him 

in the toils. 
And it were well, if thou shouldst let 

him feel, 
How dense a fold of danger nets him 

round, 
So that he bristle himself against my 
will. 
Malet. What would I do, my lord, 

if I were you ? 
William. What wouldst thou do ? 
Malet. My lord, he is thy guest. 
William. Nay, by the splendor 
of God, no guest of mine. 
He came not to see me, had past me 

by 

To hunt and hawk elsewhere, save for 

the fate 
Which hunted him when that un- 

Saxon blast, 
And bolts of thunder moulded in high 

heaven 
To serve the Norman purpose, drave 

and crack'd 
His boat on Ponthieu beach ; where 

our friend Guy 
Had wrung his ransom from him by 

the rack, 
But that I stept between and pur- 
chased him, 
Translating his captivity from Guy " 
To mine own hearth at Bayeux, where 

he sits 
My ransom'd prisoner. 

Malet. Well, if not with gold, 



778 



HAROLD. 



With golden deeds and iron strokes 

that brought 
Thy war with Brittany to a goodlier 

close 
Than else had been, he paid his ran- 
som back. 
William. So that henceforth they 

are not like to league 
With Harold against me. 

Malet. A marvel, how 

He from the liquid sands of Coesnon 
Haled thy shore-swallow'd, armor'd 

Normans up 
To fight for thee again! 

William. Perchance against 

Their saver, save thou save him from 

himself. 
Malet. But I should let him home 

again, my lord. 
William. Simple ! let fly the bird 

within the hand, 
To catch the bird again within the 

bush! 
No. 
Smooth thou my way, before he clash 

with me ; 
I want his voice in England for the 

crown, 
I want thy voicewith him to bring him 

round ; 
And being brave he must be subtly 

cow'd, 
And being truthful wrought upon to 

swear 
Vows that he dare not break. Eng- 
land our own 
Thro' Harold's help, he shall be my 

dear friend 
As well as thine, and thou thyself 

shalt have 
Large lordship there of lands and ter- 
ritory. 
Malet. I knew thy purpose ; he and 

Wulfnoth never 
Have met, except in public ; shall 

they meet 
In private ? I have often talk'd with 

Wulfnoth, 
And stuff'd the boy with fears that 

these may act 
On Harold when they meet. 

William. Then let them meet ! 



Malet. I can but love this noble, 

honest Harold. 
William. Love him ! why not ? 
thine is a loving office, 
I have commission'd thee to save the 

man : 
Help the good ship, showing the 

sunken rock, 
Or he is wreckt for ever. 

Enter William Rufus. 

William Rufus. Father. 

William. Well, boy. 

William Rufus. They have taken 
away the toy thou gavest me, 
The Norman knight. 

William. Why, boy 1 

William Rufus. Because I broke 
The horse's leg — it was mine own to 

break ; 
I like to have my toys, and break them 
too. 
William. Well, thou shalt have 

another Norman knight ! 
William Rufus. And may I break 

his legs 1 
William. Yea, — get thee gone ! 
William Rufus. I'll tell them I have 
had my way with thee. [Exit. 
Malet. I never knew thee check thy 
will for ought 
Save for the prattling of thy little ones. 
William. Who shall be kings of 
England. I am heir 
Of England by the promise of her king. 
Malet. But there the great As- 
sembly choose their king, 
The choice of England is the voice of 
England. 
William. I will be king of England 
by the laws, 
The choice, and voice of England. 
Malet. Can that be ? 

William. The voice of any people 
is the sword 
That guards them, or the sword that 

beats them down. 
Here comes the would-be what I will 

be . . . kinglike . . . 
Tho' scarce at ease ; for, save our 
meshes break, 



HAROLD. 



779 



More kinglike he than like to prove a 
king. 

(Enter Harold, musing, with his eyes 
on the ground .) 

lie sees me not — and yet he dreams 

of me. 
Earl, wilt thou fly my falcons this 

fair day ? 
They are of the best, strong-wing'd 

against the wind. 
Harold (looking up suddenly, having 

caught but the last word). Which 

way does it blow 1 
William. Blowing for England, 

ha? 
Not yet. Thou hast not learnt thy 

quarters here. 
The winds so cross and jostle among 

these towers. 
Harold. Count of the Normans, 

thou hast ransom'd us, 
Maintain'd,and entertain'd us royally ! 
William. And thou for us hast 

fought as loyally, 
Winch binds us friendship-fast for 

ever ! 
Harold. Good ! 

But lest we turn the scale of courtesy 
By too much pressure on it, I would 

fain, 
Since thou has promised Wulfnoth 

home with us, 
Be home again with Wulfnoth. 

William. Stay — as yet 

Thou hast but seen how Norman 

hands can strike, 
But walk'd our Norman field, scarce 

touch'd or tasted 
The splendors of our Court. 

Harold. I am in no mood : 

I should be as the shadow of a cloud 
I tossing your light. 

William. Nay, rest a week or two, 
And we will fill thee full of Norman 

sun, 
And send thee back among thine 

island mists 
With laughter. 
Harold. Count, I thank thee, but 

had rather 



Breathe the free wind from off our 

Saxon downs, 
Tho' charged with all the wet of all 

the west. 
William. Why if thou wilt, so let it 

be — thou shalt. 
That were a graceless hospitality 
To chain the free guest to the banquet- 
board ; 
To-morrow we will ride with thee to 

Harfleur, 
And see thee shipt, and pray in thy 

behalf 
For happier homeward winds than 

that which crack'd 
Thy bark at Ponthieu, — yet to us, in 

faith, 
A happy one — whereby we came to 

know 
Thy valor and thy value, noble earl. 
Ay, and perchance a happy one for 

thee, 
Provided — I will go with thee to- 
morrow — 
Nay — but there be conditions, easy 

ones, 
So thou, fair friend, will take them 

easily. 

Enter Page. 

Page. My lord, there is a post from 

over seas 
With news for thee. [Exit Page. 

William. Come, Malet, let us hear ! 
[Exeunt Count William and Malet. 
Harold. Conditions ? What condi- 
tions 1 pay him back 
His ransom ? " easy " — that were 

easy — nay — 
No money-lover he ! What said*the 

King 1 
" I pray you do not go to Normandy." 
And fate hath blown me hither, bound 

me too 
With bitter obligation to the Count — 
Have I not fought it out? What did 

he mean ? 
There lodged a gleaming grimness in 

his eyes, 
Gave his shorn smile the lie. The 

walls oppress me, 



780 



HAROLD. 



And yon huge keep that hinders half 

the heaven. 
Free air ! free field ! 

[Moves to go out. A Man-at-arms 

follows him. 
Harold (to the Man-at-arms). I need 
thee not. Why dost thou fol- 
low me ? 
Man-at-arms. I have the Count's 

commands to follow thee. 
Harold. What then 1 Am I in dan- 
ger in this court ? 
Man-at-arms. I cannot tell. I have 

the Count's commands. 
Harold. Stand out of earshot then, 
and keep me still 
In eyeshot. 

Man-at-arms. Yea, Lord Harold. 

[ Withdraws. 

Harold. And arm'd men 

Ever keep watch beside my chamber 

door, 
And if I walk within the lonely wood, 
There is an arm'd man ever glides be- 
hind! 

{Enter Malet.) 

Why am I follow'd, haunted, harass'd, 

watch'd ? 
See yonder ! 

[Pointing to the Man-at-arms. 
Malet. 'Tis the good Count's care 
for thee ! 
The Normans love thee not, nor thou 

the Normans, 
Or — so they deem. 

Harold. But wherefore is the wind, 
Which way soever the vane-arrow 

swing, 
No Vever fair for England 1 Why but 

now 
He said (thou heardst him) that I 

must not hence 
Save on conditions. 

Malet. So in truth he said. 

Harold. Malet, thy mother was an 
Englishwoman ; 
There somewhere beats an English 
pulse in thee ! 
Malet. Well — for my mother's 
sake I love your England, 
But for my father I love Normandy. 



Harold. Speak for thy mother's 

sake, and tell me true. 
Malet. Then for my mother's sake, 
and England's sake 
That suffers in the daily want of 

thee, 
Obey the Count's conditions, my good 
friend. 
Harold. How, Malet, if they be not 

honorable ! 
Malet. Seem to obey them. 
Harold. Better die than lie! 

Malet. Choose therefore whether 
thou wilt have thy conscience 
White as a maiden's hand, or whether 

England 
Be shatter'd into fragments. 
Harold. News from England ? 
Malet. Morcar and Edwin have 
stirr'd up the Thanes 
Against thy brother Tostig's govern- 
ance ; 
And all the North of Humber is one 
storm. 
Harold. I should be there, Malet, I 

should be there ! 
Malet. And Tostig in his own hall 
on suspicion 
Hath massacred the Thane that was 

his guest, 
Gamel, the son of Orm : and there be 

more 
As villanously slain. 

Harold. The wolf ! the beast ! 

Ill news for guests, ha, Malet ! More ? 

What more ? 
What do they say 1 did Edward know 
of this? 
Malet. They say, his wife was know- 

ing and abetting. 
Harold. They say, his wife! — To 
marry and have no husband 
Makes the wife fool. My God, I 

should be there. 
I'll hack my way to the sea. 

Malet. Thou canst not, Harold ; 
Our Duke is all between thee and the 

sea, 
Our Duke is all about thee like a God ; 
All passes block'd. Obey him, speak 

him fair, 
For he is only debonair to those 



HAROLD. 



781 



That follow where he leads, but stark 
as death 

To those that cross him. — Look thou, 
here is Wulfnoth! 

I leave thee to thy talk with him 
alone ; 

How wan, poor lad ! how sick and sad 
for home ! {Exit Malet. 

Harold [muttering). Go not to Nor- 
mandy — go not to Normandy ! 

(Enter Wulfnoth.) 

Poor brother ! still a hostage ! 

Wulfnoth. Yea, and I 

Shall see the dewy kiss of dawn no 

more 
Make blush the maiden-white of our 

tall cliffs, 
Nor mark the sea-bird rouse himself 

and hover 
Above the windy ripple, and fill the sky 
With free sea-laughter — never — 

save indeed 
Thou canst make yield this iron- 
mood cd Duke 
To let me go. 

Harold. Why, brother, so he will ; 
But on conditions. Canst thou guess 

at them ? 
Wulfnoth. Draw nearer, — X was in 

the corridor, 
I saw him coming with his brotner Odo 
The Bayeux bishop, and I bid myself. 
Harold. They did thee wrong who 

made thee hostage ; thou 
Wast ever fearful. 

Wulfnoth. And he spoke — I 

heard him — 
" This Harold is not of the royal blood, 
Can have no right to the crown," and 

Odo said, 
"Thine is the right, for thine the 

might ; he is here, 
And yonder is thy keep." 

Harold. No, Wulfnoth, no. 

Wulfnoth. And William laugh'd and 

swore that might was right, 
Far as he knew in this poor world of 

ours — 
" Marry, the Saints must go along with 



And, brother, we will find a way," said 

he — 
Yea, yea, he would be king of England. 
Harold. Never! 

,\\rffnoth. Yea, but thou must not 

this way answer him. 
Harold. Is it not better still to 

speak the truth ? 
Wulfnoth. Not here, or thou wilt 
never hence nor I : 
For in the racing toward this golden 

goal 
He turns not right or left, but tram- 
ples flat 
Whatever thwarts him; hast thou 

never heard 
His savagery at Alencon, — the town 
Hung out raw hides along their walls, 

and cried 
" Work for the tanner." 

Harold. That had anger'd me 

Had I been William. 

Wulfnoth. Nay, but he had prison- 
ers, 
He tore their eyes out, sliced their 

hands away, 
And flung them streaming o'er the 

battlements 
Upon the heads of those who walk'd 

within — 
speak him fair, Harold, for thine 
own sake. 
Harold. Your Welshman says, 
"The Truth against the 
World," 
Much more the truth against myself. 
Wulfnoth. Thyself ? 

But for my sake, oh brother ! oh ! for 
my sake ! 
Harold. Poor Wulfnoth! do they 

not entreat thee well ? 
Wulfnoth. I see the blackness of 
my dungeon loom 
Across their lamps of revel, and be- 
yond 
The merriest murmurs of their ban- 
quet clank 
The shackles that will bind me to the 
wall. 
Harold. Too fearful still ! 
Wulfnoth. Oh no, no — speak 

him fair ! 



782 



HAROLD. 



Call it to temporize ; and not to lie ; 

Harold, I do not counsel thee to lie. 

The man that hath to foil a murder- 
ous aim 

May, surely, play with words. 

Harold. Words are the man. 

Not ev'n for thy sake, brother, would 
Hie. 
WuJfnoth. Then for thine Edith * 
Harold. There thou prick'st me 

deep. 
Wulfnoth. And for our Mother 

England % 
Harold. Deeper still. 

Wulfnoth. And deeper still the 
deep-down oubliette, 

Down thirty feet below the smiling 
day — 

In blackness — dogs' food thrown upon 
thy head. 

And over thee the suns arise and set, 

And the lark sings, the sweet stars 
come and go, 

And men are at their markets, in their 
fields, 

And woo their loves and have forgot- 
ten thee ; 

And thou art upright in thy living 
grave, 

Where there is barely room to shift 
thy side, 

And all thine England hath forgotten 
thee; 

And he our lazy-pious Norman King, 

With all his Normans round him once 
again, 

Counts his old beads, and hath for- 
gotten thee. 
Harold. Thou art of my blood, and 
so methinks, my boy, 

Thy fears infect me beyond reason. 
Peace ! 
Wulfnoth. And then our fiery Tos- 
tig, while thy hands 

Are palsied here, if his Northumbri- 
ans rise 

And hurl him from them, — I have 
heard the Normans 

Count upon this confusion — may he 
not make 

A league with William, so to bring 
him back ? 



Harold. That lies within the 

shadow of the chance. 
Wulfnoth. And like a river in flood 
thro' a burst dam 
Descends the ruthless Norman — our 

good King 
Kneels mumbling some old bone — 

our helpless folk 
Are wash'd away, wailing; in their 
own blood — 
Harold. Wailing ! not warring ? 
Boy, thou hast forgotten 
That thou art English. 

Wulfnoth. Then our modest wo- 
men — 
I know the Norman license — thine 
own Edith — 
Harold. No more ! I will not hear 

thee — William comes. 
Wulfnoth. I dare not well be seen 
in talk with thee. 
Make thou not mention that I spake 
with thee. 
[Moves away to the back of the stage. 

Enter William, Malet, and Officer. 

Officer. We have the man that 

rail'd against thy birth. 
William. Tear out his tongue. 
Officer. He shall not rail again. 

He said that he should see confusion 

fall 
On thee and on thine house. 

William. Tear out his eyes, 

And plunge him into prison. 

Officer. It shall be done. 

[Exit Officer. 

William. Look not amazed, fair 

earl ! Better leave undone 

Than do by halves — tongueless and 

eyeless, prison'd — 

Harold. Better methinks have 

slain the man at once ! 
William. We have respect for 
man's immortal soul, 
We seldom take man's life, except in 

war; 
It frights the traitor more to maim 
and blind. 
Harold. In mine own land I should 
have scorn'd the man, 



HAROLD. 



783 



Or lash'd his rascal back, and let him 

go- 
Mill tarn. And let him go ? To 

slander thee again ! 
Yet in thine own land in thy father's 

day 
They blinded my young kinsman, 

Alfred — ay, 
Some said it was thy father's deed. 
Harold. They lied. 

William. But thou and he — whom 

at thy word, for thou 
Art known a speaker of the truth, I 

free 
From this foul charge — 

Harold. Nay, nay, he freed himself 
By oath and compurgation from the 

charge. 
The king, the lords, the people clear'd 

him of it. 
William. But thou and he drove 

our good Normans out 
From England, and this rankles in 

us yet. 
Archbishop Robert hardly scaped 

with life. 
Harold. Archbishop Robert! Rob- 
ert the Archbishop ! 
Robert of Jumieges, he that — 
Malet. Quiet ! quiet ! 

Harold. Count ! if there sat with- 
in the Norman chair 
A ruler all for England — one who 

fill'd 
All offices, all bishopricks with Eng- 
lish — 
We could not move from Dover to 

the Humber 
Saving thro' Norman bishopricks — I 

say 
Ye would applaud that Norman who 

should drive 
The stranger to the fiends ! 

William. Why, that is reason ! 

Warrior thou art, and mighty wise 

withal ! 
Ay, ay, but many among our Norman 

lords 
Hate thee for this, and press upon 

me — saying 
God and the sea have given thee to 

our hands — 



To plunge thee into life-long prison 

here : — 
Yet I hold out against them, as I may, 
Yea — would hold out, yea, tho' they 

should revolt — 
For thou hast done the battle in my 

cause ; 
I am thy fastest friend in Normandy. 
Harold. I am doubly bound to thee 

... if this be so. 
William. And I would bind thee 
more, and would myself 
Be bounden to thee more. 

Harold. Then let me hence 

With Wulfnoth to King Edward. 

William. So we will. 

We hear he hath not long to live. 
Harold. It may be. 

William. Why then the heir of 

England, who is he } 
Harold. The Atheling is nearest 

to the throne. 
William. But sickly, slight, half- 
witted and a child, 
Will England have him king ? 

Harold. It may be, no. 

William. And hath King Edward 

not pronounced his heir ? 
Harold. Not that I know. 
William. When he was here 

in Normandy, 
He loved us and we him, because we 

found him 
A Norman of the Normans. 

Harold. So did we. 

William. A gentle, gracious, pure 
and saintly man! 
And grateful to the hand that shielded 

him, 
He promised that if ever he were king 
In England, he would give his kingly 

voice 
To me as his successor. Knowest 
thou this 1 
Harold. I learn it now. . 
William. Thou knowest I am 

his cousin, 
And that my wife descends from' 
Alfred ? 
Harold. Ay. 

William. Who hath a better claim 
then to the crown 



784 



HAROLD. 



So that ye will not crown the Athel- 

ing? 
Harold. None that I know ... if 

that but hung upon 
King Edward's will. 

William. Wilt thou uphold my 

claim ? 
Malet (aside to Harold). Be careful 

of thine answer, my good friend. 
Wulfnoih (aside to Harold). Oh ! 

Harold, for my sake and for 

thine own ! 
Harold. Ay ... if the king have 

not revoked his promise. 
William. But hath he done it 

then? 
Harold. Not that I know. 

William. Good, good, and thou 

wilt help me to the crown ? 
Harold. Ay ... if the Witan will 

consent to this. 
William. Thou art the mightiest 

voice in England, man, 
Thy voice will lead the Witan — 

shall I have it 1 
Widfnoth (aside to Harold). Oh! 

Harold, if thou love thine Edith, 

ay. 
Harold. Ay, if — 
Malet (aside to Harold). Thine 

" if s " will sear thine eyes out 

— ay. 
William. I ask thee, wilt thou help 

me to the crown 1 
And I will make thee my great Earl 

of Earls, 
Foremost in England and in Nor- 
mandy ; 
Thou shalt be verily king — all but 

the name — 
For I shall most sojourn in Nor- 
mandy ; 
And thou be my vice-king in Eng- 
land. Speak. 
Widfnoth (aside to Harold). Ay, 

brother — for the sake of Eng- 
land — ay. 
Harold. My lord — 
Malet (aside to Harold). Take heed 

now. 
Harold. Ay. 
William. I am content, 



For thou art truthful, and thy word 
thy bond. 

To-morrow will we ride with thee to 
Harfleur. [Exit William. 

Malet. Harold, I am thy friend, 
one life with thee, 

And even as I should bless thee saving 
mine, 

I thank thee now for having saved 
thyself. [Exit Malet. 

Harold. For having lost myself 
to save myself, 

Said " ay " when I meant " no," lied 
like a lad 

That dreads the pendent scourge, 
said " ay " for " no " ! 

Ay ! No ! — he hath not bound me by 
an oath — 

Is " ay " an oath ? is " ay " strong as 
an oath ? 

Or is it the same sin to break my word 

As break mine oath ? He call'd my 
word my bond ! 

He is a liar who knows I am a liar, 

And makes me believe that he believes 
my word — 

The crime be on his head — not 
bounden — no. 
[Suddenly doors are flung open, dis- 
covering in an inner hall Count 
William in his state robes, seated 
upon his throne, between two 
Bishops, Odo of Bayeux being 
one : in the centre of the hall an 
ark covered with cloth of gold; 
and on either side of it the Nor- 
man barons. 

Enter a Jailor before William's throne. 
William (to Jailor). Knave, hast 

let thy prisoner scape ? 
Jailor. Sir Count, 

He had but one foot, he must have 

hopt away, 
Yea, some familiar spirit must have 
help'd him. 
William. Woe knave to thy familiar 
and to thee ! 
Give me thy keys. [They fall clashing. 
Nay let them lie. Stand there and 
wait my will. 

[The Jailor stands aside. 



HAROLD. 



785 



William (to Harold). Hast thou 
such trustless jailors in thy 
North ? 
Harold. We have few prisoners in 
mine earldom there. 
So less chance for false keepers. 

William. We have heard 

Of thy just, mild, and equal gover- 
nance ; 
Honor to thee ! thou art perfect in all 

honor ! 
Thy naked word thy bond ! confirm it 

now 
Before our gather'd Norman baronage, 
For they will not believe me — as I 
believe. 
[Descends from his throne and 
stands by the ark. 
Let all men here bear witness of our 
bond ! 
[Beckons to Harold, who advances. 

Enter Malet behind him. 
Lay thou thy hand upon this golden 

pall ! 
Behold the jewel of St. Pancratius 
Woven into the gold. Swear thou on 
this! 
Harold. What should I swear 1 

Why should I swear on this ? 
William (savagely). Swear thou to 
help me to the crown of Eng- 
land. 
Malet (whispering Harold). My 
friend, thou hast gone too far 
to palter now. 
Wulfnoth (ichispering Harold). 
Swear thou to-day, to-morrow 
is thine own. 
Harold. I swear to help thee to the 
crown of England . . . 
According as King Edward promises. 
William. Thou must swear abso- 
lutely, noble Earl. 
Malet (ichispering). Delay is death 

to thee, ruin to England. 
Wulfnoth (whispering). Swear, dear- 
est brother, I beseech thee, 
swear ! 
Harold (putting his hand on the jewel). 
I swear to help thee to the 
crown of England. 



William. Thanks, truthful Earl; I 

did not doubt thy word, 
But that my barons might believe thy 

word, 
And that the Holy Saints of Normandy 
When thou art home in England, with 

thine own, 
Might strengthen thee in keeping of 

thy word, 
T made thee swear. — Show him by 

whom he hath sworn. 
[The two Bishops advance, and 

raise the cloth of gold. The bodies 

and bones of Saints are seen lying 

in the ark. 
The holy bones of all the Canonized 
From all the holiest shrines in Nor- 
mandy ! 
Harold. Horrible ! [ They let the 

cloth fall again. 
William. Ay, for thou hast sworn 

an oath 
Which, if not kept, would make the 

hard earth rive 
To the very Devil's horns, the bright 

sky cleave 
To the very feet of God, and send her 

hosts 
Of injured Saints to scatter sparks of 

plague 
Thro' all your cities, blast your in- 
fants, dash 
The torch of war among your standing 

corn, 
Dabble your hearths with your own 

blood. — Enough ! 
Thou wilt not break it ! I, the Count 

— the King — 
Thy friend — am grateful for thine 

honest oath, 
Not coming fiercely like a conqueror, 

now, 
But softly as a bridegroom to his own. 
For I shall rule according to your 

laws, 
And make your ever-jarring Earldoms 

move 
To music and in order — Angle, Jute, 
Dane, Saxon, Norman, help to build a 

throne 
Out-towering hers of France . . . The 

wind is fair 



786 



HAROLD. 



For England now . . . To-night we 
will be merry. 

To-morrow will I ride with thee to 
Harfleur. 
[Exeunt William and all the Nor- 
man barons, etc. 
Harold. To-night we will be merry 
— and to-morrow — 

Juggler and bastard — bastard — he 
hates that most — 

William the tanner's bastard ! Would 
he heard me ! 

God, that I were in some wide, 

waste field 
With nothing but my battle-axe and 

him 
To spatter his brains ! Why let earth 

rive, gulf in 
These cursed Normans — yea and 

mine own self. 
Cleave heaven, and send thy saints 

that I may say 
Ev'n to their faces, " If ye side with 

William 
Ye are not noble." How their pointed 

fingers 
Glared at me ! Am I Harold, Harold, 

son 
Of our great Godwin 1 Lo ! I touch 

mine arms, 
My limbs — they are not mine — they 

are a liar's — 

1 mean to be a liar — I am not bound — 
Stigand shall give me absolution for 

it — 
Did the chest move ? did it move 1 

I am utter craven ! 
O Wulfnoth, Wulfnoth, brother, thou 

hast betray'd me ! 
Wulfnoth. Forgive me, brother, I 

will live here and die. 

Enter Page. 

Page. My lord ! the Duke awaits 

thee at the banquet. 
Harold. Where they eat dead men's 

flesh, and drink their blood. 
Page. My lord — 
Harold. I know your Norman 

cookery is so spiced, 
It masks all this. 



Page. My lord ! thou art white 

as death. 
Harold. With looking on the dead. 

Am I so white ? 
Thy Duke will seem the darker. 

Hence, I follow. [Exeunt. 



ACT III. 

SCENE I.— The King's Palace. 
London. 

King Edward dying on a couch, and 
by him standing the Queen, Harold, 
Archbishop Stigand, Gurth, 
Leofwin, Archbishop Aldred, 
Aldwyth, and Edith. 

Stigand. Sleeping or dying there ? 

If this be death, 
Then our great Council wait to crown 

thee King — 
Come hither, I have a power ; 

[To Harold. 
They call me near, for I am close to 

thee 
And England — I, old shrivell'd 

Stigand, I, 
Dry as an old wood-fungus on a dead 

tree, 
I have a power ! 

See here this little key about my neck ! 
There lies a treasure buried down in 

Ely: 
If e'er the Norman grow too hard for 

thee, 
Ask me for this at thy most need, 

son Harold, 
At thy most need — not sooner. 
Harold. So I will. 

Stigand. Eed gold — a hundred 

purses — yea, and more ! 
If thou canst make a wholesome use 

of these 
To chink against the Norman, I do 

believe 
My old crook'd spine would bud out 

two young wings 
To fly to heaven straight with. 

Harold. Thank thee, father! 

Thou art English, Edward too is Eng- 
lish now, 



HAROLD. 



787 



He hath clean repented of his Nor- 
manism. 
Stigand. Ay, as the libertine re- 
pents who cannot 

Make done undone, when thro' his 
dying sense 

Shrills " lost thro' thee." They have 
built their castles here ; 

Our priories are Norman ; the Norman 
adder 

Hath bitten us ; we are poison'd : our 
dear England 

Is demi-Norman. He! — 

[Pointing to King Edward, sleeping. 
Harold. I would I were 

As holy and as passionless as he ! 

That I might rest as calmly ! Look 
at him — * 

The rosy face, and long down-silver- 
ing beard, 

The brows unwrinkled as a summer 
mere. — 
Stigand. A summer mere with sud- 
den wreckful gusts 

From a side-gorge. Passionless 1 How 
he flamed 

When Tostig's anger'd earldom flung 
him, nay. 

He fain had calcined all Northumbria 

To one black ash, but that thy patriot 
passion 

Siding with our great Council against 
Tostig, 

Outpassion'd his ! Holy 1 ay, ay, for- 
sooth, 

A conscience for his own soul, not his 
realm ; 

A twilight conscience lighted thro' a 
chink ; 

Thine by the sun ; nay, by some sun 
to be, 

When all the world hath learnt to 
speak the truth, 

And lying were self-murder by that 
state 

Which was the exception. 
Harold. That sun may God speed ! 
Stigand. Come, Harold shake the 

cloud off ! 
Harold. Can I, father ? 

Our Tostig parted cursing me and 
England ; 



Our sister hates us for his banish- 
ment ; 
He hath gone to kindle Norway against 

England, 
And Wulfnoth is alone in Normandy. 
For when I rode with William down 

to Harfleur, 
" Wulfnoth is sick," he said ; " he 

cannot follow ; " 
Then with that friendly-fiendly smile 

of his, 
" We have learnt to love him, let him 

a little longer 
Remain a hostage for the loyalty 
Of Godwin's house." As far as 

touches Wulfnoth 
I that so prized plain word and naked 

truth 
Have sinn'd against it — all in vain. 

Leo/win. Good brother, 

By all the truths that ever priest hath 

preach'd, 
Of all the lies that ever men have lied, 
Thine is the pardonablest. 

Harold. May be so ! 

I think it so, I think I am a fool 
To think it can be otherwise than so. 
Stigand. Tut, tut, I have absolved 

thee : dost thou scorn me, 
Because I had my Canterbury pallium 
From one whom they dispoped ? 
Harold. No, Stigand, no ! 

Stigand. Is naked truth actable in 

true life 1 
I have heard a saying of thy father 

Godwin, 
That, were a man of state nakedly 

true, 
Men would but take him for the 

craftier liar. 
Leofwin. Be men less delicate than 

the Devil himself 1 
I thought that naked Truth would 

shame the Devil 
The Devil is so modest. 

Gurth. He never said it ! 

Leo/win. Be thou not stupid-honest, 

brother Gurth ! 
Harold. Better to be a liar's dog, 

and hold 
My master honest, than believe that 

lying 



788 



HAROLD. 



And ruling men are fatal twins that 
cannot 

Move one without the other. Ed- 
ward wakes ! — 

Dazed — he hath seen a vision. 
Edward. The green tree ! 

Then a great Angel past along the 
highest 

Crying "the doom of England," and 
at once 

He stood beside me, in his grasp a 
sword 

Of lightnings, wherewithal he cleft 
the tree 

From off the bearing trunk, and 
hurl'd it from him 

Three fields away, and then he dash'd 
and drench'd, 

He dyed, he soak'd the trunk with 
human blood, 

And brought the sunder'd tree again, 
and set it 

Straight on the trunk, that thus bap- 
tized in blood 

Grew ever high and higher, beyond 
my seeing, 

And shot out sidelong boughs across 
the deep 

That dropt themselves, and rooted in 
far isles 

Beyond my seeing : and the great 
Angel rose 

And past again along the highest cry- 
ing 

"The doom of England!" — Tostig, 
raise my head ! 

[Falls back senseless. 
Harold {raising him). Let Harold 

serve for Tostig ! 
Queen. Harold served 

Tostig so ill, he cannot serve for Tos- 
tig! 

Ay, raise his head, for thou hast laid 
it low ! 

The sickness of our saintly king, for 
whom 

My prayers go up as fast as my tears 
fall, 

I well believe, hath mainly drawn it- 
self 

From lack of Tostig — thou hast ban- 
ish'd him. 



Harold. Nay — but the council, and 

the king himself. 
Queen. Thou hatest him, hatest 

him. 
Harold (coldly). Ay — Stigand, 

unriddle 
This vision, canst thou ? 

Stigand. Dotage ! 

Edward (starting up). It is finish'd. 
I have built the Lord a house — the 

Lord hath dwelt 
In darkness. I have built the Lord a 

house — 
Palms, flowers, pomegranates, golden 

cherubim 
With twenty-cubit wings from wall to 

wall — 
I have built the Lord a house — sing, 

Asaph ! clash 
The cymbal, Heman ! blow the trum- 
pet, priest ! 
Fall, cloud, and fill the house — lo ! 

my two pillars, 
Jachin and Boaz ! — 

[Seeing Harold and Gurth. 
Harold, Gurth, — where ami? 
Where is the charter of our Westmin- 
ster? 
Stigand. It lies beside thee, king, 

upon thy bed. 
Edward. Sign, sign at once — take, 
sign it, Stigand, Aldred ! 
Sign it, my good son Harold, Gurth, 

and Leofwin, 
Sign it, my queen ! 
All. We have sign'd it. 

Edward. It is finish'd ! 

The kingliest Abbey in all Christian 

lands, 
The lordliest, loftiest minster ever 

built 
To Holy Peter in our English isle ! 
Let me be buried there, and all our 

kings, 
And all our just and wise and holy 

men 
That shall be born hereafter. It is 

finish'd ! 
Hast thou had absolution for thine 
oath? [To Harold. 

Harold. Stigand hath given me 
absolution for it. 



HAROLD. 



789 



Edward. Stigand is not canonical 
enough 
To save thee from the wrath of Nor- 
ma n Saints. 
Stigand. Norman enough ! Be 
there no Saints of England 
To help us from their brethren yon- 
der \ 
Edward. Prelate, 

The Saints are one, but those of Nor- 

manland 

Are mightier than our own. Ask it of 

A hired. [To Harold. 

Aldred. It shall be granted him, 

my king ; for he 

Who vows a vow to strangle his own 

mother 
Is guiltier keeping this, than breaking 
it. 
Edward. friends, I shall not over- 
live the day. 
Stigand. Why then the throne is 
empty. Who inherits 1 
For tho' we be not bound by the king's 

A-oice 
In making of a king, yet the king's 

voice 
Is much toward his making. Who 

inherits ? 
Edgar the At^ieling 1 

Edward. No, no, but Harold. 

I love him : he hath served me : none 

but he 
Can rule all England. Yet the curse 

is on him 
For swearing falsely by those blessed 

bones ; 
He did not mean to keep his vow. 

Harold. Not mean 

To make our England Norman. 

Edward. There spake Godwin, 

Who hated all the Normans ; but their 

Saints 
Have heard thee, Harold. 

Edith. Oh ! my lord, my king ! 

He knew not whom he sware by. 

Edward. Yea, I know 

He knew not, but those heavenly ears 

have heard, 
Their curse is on him ; wilt thou bring 

another, 
Edith, upon his head 1 



Edith. No, no, not I. 

Edward. Why then, thou must not 

wed him. 
Harold. Wherefore, wherefore ? 
Edward. son, when thou didst 

tell me of thine oath, 
I sorrow'd for my random promise 

given 
To yon fox-lion. I did not dream 

then 
I should be king. — My son, the Saints 

are virgins ; 
They love the white rose of virginity, 
The cold, white lily blowing in her 

cell: 
I have been myself a virgin ; and I 

sware 
To consecrate my virgin here to 

heaven — 
The silent, cloister'd, solitary life, 
A life of life-long prayer against the 

curse 
That lies on thee and England. 

Harold. No, no, no. 

Edward. Treble denial of the 

tongue of flesh, 
Like Peter's when he fell, and thou 

wilt have 
To wail for it like Peter. O my 

son! 
Are all oaths to be broken then, all 

promises 
Made in our agony for help from 

heaven? 
Son, there is one who loves thee . 

and a wife, 
What matters who, so she be service- 
able 
In all obedience, as mine own hath 

been: 
God bless thee, wedded daughter. 
[Laying his hand on the Queen's head. 
Queen. Bless thou too 

That brother whom I love beyond the 

rest, 
My banish'd Tostig. 
Edward. All the sweet Saints 

bless him ! 
Spare and forbear him, Harold, if he 

comes ! 
And let him pass unscathed ; he lovee 

me, Harold ! 



790 



HAROLD. 



Be kindly to the Normans left among 

us, 
Who f ollow'd me for love ! and dear 

son, swear 
When thou art king, to see my solemn 

vow 
Accomplish'd. 

Harold. Nay, dear lord, for I have 
sworn 
Not to swear falsely twice. 

Edward. Thou wilt not swear 1 

Harold. I cannot. 
Edward. Then on thee remains 

the curse, 
Harold, if thou embrace her : and on 

thee, 
Edith, if thou abide it, — 

\The King swoons ; Edith falls and 
kneels by the couch. 
Stigand. He hath swoon'd ! 

Death 1 ... no, as yet a breath. 

Harold. Look up ! look up ! 

Edith! 

Aldred. Confuse her not ; she hath 
begun 
Her life-long prayer for thee. 

Aldwyth. O noble Harold, 

I would thou couldst have sworn. 
Harold. For thine own pleasure ? 
Aldwyth. No, but to please our 
dying king, and those 
Who make thy good their own — all 
England, Earl. 
Aldred. I would thou couldst have 
sworn. Our holy king 
Hath given his virgin lamb to Holy 

Church 
To save thee from the curse. 

Harold. Alas ! poor man, 

His promise brought it on me. 

Aldred. O good son! 

That knowledge made him all the 

carefuller 
To find a means whereby the curse 

might glance 
From thee and England. 

Harold. Father, we so loved — 

Aldred. The more the love, the 

mightier is the prayer ; 

The more the love, the more acceptable 

The sacrifice of both your loves to 

heaven. 



No sacrifice to heaven, no help from 

heaven ; 
That runs thro' all the faiths of all 

the world. 
And sacrifice there must be, for the 

king 
Is holy, and hath talk'd with God, 

and seen 
A shadowing horror ; there are signs 
in heaven — 
Harold. Your comet came and went. 
Aldred. And signs on earth ! 

Knowest thou Senlac hill % 

Harold. I know all Sussex ; 

A good entrenchment for a perilous 

hour ! 

Aldred. Pray God that come not 

suddenly ! There is one 

Who passing by that hill three nights 

ago — 
He shook so that he scarce could out 

with it — 
Heard, heard — 

Harold. The wind in his hair 1 

Aldred. A ghostly horn 

Blowing continually, and faint battle- 
hymns, 
And cries, and clashes, and the groans 

of men ; 
And dreadful shadows strove upon 

the hill, 
And dreadful lights crept up from out 

the marsh — 
Corpse-candles gliding over nameless 
graves — 
Harold. At Senlac ? 
Aldred. Senlac. 

Edward (waking). Senlac! Sangue- 
lac, 
The Lake of Blood ! 

Stigand. This lightning before 
death 
Plays on the word, — and Normanizes 
too! 
Harold. Hush, father, hush ! 
Edward. Thou uncanonical fool, 
Wilt thou play with the thunder ? 

North and South 
Thunder together, showers of blood 

are blown 
Before a never ending blast, and 
hiss 



HAROLD. 



791 



Against the blaze they cannot quench 

— a lake, 
A sea of blood — we are drown'cl in 

blood — for God 
Has filFd the quiver, and Death has 

drawn the bow — 
Sanguelac ! Sanguelac ! the arrow ! the 

arrow ! [Dies. 

Stigand. It is the arrow of death in 

his own heart — 
And our great Council wait to crown 

thee King. 



SCENE II. — In the Garden. The 
King's House near London. 

Edith. Crown'd, crown 'd and lost, 
crown'd King — and lost to me ! 
(Singing.) 
Two young lovers in winter weather, 

None to guide them, 
Walk'd at night on the misty heather ; 
Night, as black as a raven's feather; 
Both were lost and found together, 
None beside them. 

That is the burthen of it — lost and 

found 
Together in the cruel river Swale 
A hundred years ago; and there's 

another, 

Lost, lost, the light of day, 
To which the lover answers lovingly 

" I am beside thee." . 
Lost, lost, we have lost the way. 
" Love, I will guide thee." 
Whither, whither ? into the river, 
Where we two may be lost together, 
And lost for ever ? " Oh ! never, oh ! 

never, 
Tho' we be lost and be found to- 
gether." 

Some think they loved within the pale 

forbidden 
By Holy Church : but who shall say ? 

the truth 
Was lost in that fierce North, where 

they were lost, 



Where all good things are lost, where 

Tostig lost 
The good hearts of his people. It is 

Harold ! 



(Enter Harold.) 

Harold the King ! 

Harold. Call me not King, 

but Harold. 
Edith. Nay, thou art King ! 
Harold. Thine, thine, or King 

or churl ! 
My girl, thou hast been weeping : turn 

not thou 
Thy face away, but rather let me be 
King of the moment to thee, and com- 
mand 
That kiss my due when subject, which 

will make 
My kingship kinglier to me than to 

reign 
King of the world without it. 

Edith. Ask me not, 

Lest I should yield it, and the second 

curse 
Descend upon thine head, and thou 

be only 
King of the moment over England. 

Harold. Edith, 

Tho' somewhat less a king to my true 

self 
Than ere they crown'd me one, for I 

have lost 
Somewhat of upright stature thro' 

mine oath, 
Yet thee I would not lose, and sell 

not thou 
Our living passion for a dead man's 

dream ; 
Stigand believed he knew not what he 

spake. 
Oh God ! I cannot help it, but at 

times 
They seem to me too narrow, all the 

faiths 
Of this grown world of ours, whose 

baby eye 
Saw them sufficient. Fool and wise, 

I fear 
This curse, and scorn it. But a little 

light ! — 



792 



HAROLD. 



And on it falls the shadow of the 

priest ; 
Heaven yield us more ! for better, 

Woden, all 
Our cancell'd warrior-gods, our grim 

Walhalla, 
Eternal war, than that the Saints at 

peace 
The Holiest of our Holiest one should 

be 
This William's fellow-tricksters ; — 

better die 
Than credit this, for death is death, 

or else 
Lifts us beyond the lie. Kiss me — 

thou art not 
A holy sister yet, my girl, to fear 
There might be more than brother in 

my kiss, 
And more than sister in thine own. 
Edith. I dare not. 

Harold. Scared by the church — 
" Love for a whole life long " 
When was that sung 1 

Edith. Here to the nightingales. 
Harold. Their anthems of no 
church, how sweet they are ! 
Nor kingly priest, nor priestly king to 

cross 
Their billings ere they nest. 

Edith. They are but of spring, 

They fly the winter change — not so 

with us — 
No wings to come and go. 

Harold. But wing'd souls flying 

Beyond all change and in the eternal 

distance 
To settle on the Truth. 

Edith. They are not so true, 

They change their mates. 

Harold. Do they ? I did not know it. 
Edith. They say thou art to wed 

the Lady Aldwyth. 
Harold. They say, they say. 
Edith. If this be politic, 

And well for thee and England — and 

for her — 
■Oare not for me who love thee. 

Gurth {calling). Harold, Harold! 
Harold. The voice of Gurth ! {Enter 
Gurth.) Good even, my good 
brother ! 



Gurth. Good even, gentle Edith. 
Edith. Good even, Gurth. 

Gurth. Ill news hath come ! Our 

hapless brother, Tostig — 
He, and the giant King of Norway, 

Harold 
Hardrada — Scotland, Ireland, Ice- 
land, Orkney, 
Are landed North of Humber, and in 

a field 
So packt with carnage that the dykes 

and brooks 
Were bridged and damm'd with dead, 

have overthrown 
Morcar and Edwin. 

Harold. Well then, we must 

fight. 
How blows the wind ? 

Gurth. Against St. Valery 

And William. 

Harold. Well then, we will to the 

North. 
Gurth. Ay, but worse news : this 

William sent to Rome, 
Swearing thou swarest falsely by his 

Saints : 
The Pope and that Archdeacon Hilde- 

brand 
His master, heard him, and have sent 

him back 
A holy gonfanon, and a blessed hair 
Of Peter, and all France, all Bur- 
gundy, 
Poitou, all Christendom is raised 

against thee ; 
He hath cursed thee, and all those 

.who fight for thee, 
And given thy realm of England to 

the bastard. 
Harold. Ha! ha! 
Edith. Oh ! laugh not ! . . . Strange 

and ghastly in the gloom 
And shadowing of this double thun- 
der-cloud 
That lours on England — laughter ! 

Harold. No, not strange ! 

This was old human laughter in old 

Rome 
Before a Pope was born, when that 

which reign'd 
Call'd itself God. — A kindly render- 

ing 



HAROLD. 



793 



Of " Render unto Caesar." . . . The 

Good Shepherd ! 
Take this, and render that. 

Gurth. They have taken York. 

Harold. The Lord was God and 

came as man — the Pope 

Is man and comes as God. — York 

taken ? 

Gurth. Yea, Tostig hath taken 

York ! 
Harold. To York then. Edith, 

Hadst thou been braver, I had better 

braved 
All — but I love thee and thou me — 

and that 
Remains beyond all chances and all 

churches, 
And that thou knowest. 

Edith. Ay, but take back thy ring. 
It burns my hand — a curse to thee 

and me. 
I dare not wear it. 

[Proffers Harold the ring, which he takes. 

Harold. But I dare. God with thee ! 

[Exeunt Harold and Gurth. 

Edith. The King hath cursed him, 

if he marry me ; 

The Pope hath cursed him, marry me 

or no ! 
God help me ! I know nothing — can 

but pray 
For Harold — pray, pray, pray — no 

help but prayer, 
A breath that fleets beyond this iron 

world, 
And touches Him that made it. 



ACT rv. 

SCENE I. — Ix Northumbria. 

Abchbishof Aldked, Morcar, Ed- 
win, and Forces. Enter Harold. 
The standard of the golden Dragon 
of Wessex preceding him. 

Harold. What ! are thy people sul- 
len from defeat ? 
Our Wessex dragon flies beyond the 

Humber, 
No voici to greet it. 

Edwin. Let not our great king 



Believe us sullen — only shamed to 

the quick 
Before the king — as having been so 

bruised 
By Harold, king of Norway; but our 

help 
Is Harold, king of England. Pardon 

us, thou ! 
Our silence is our reverence for the 
king! 
Harold. Earl of the Mercians ! if 
the truth be gall, 
Cram me not thou with honey, when 

our good hive 
Needs every sting to save it. 

Voices. Aldwyth ! Aldwyth ! 

Harold. "Why cry thy people on thy 

sister's name ? 
Morcar. She hath won upon our 
people thro' her beauty, 
And pleasantness among them. 

Voices. Aldwyth, Aldwyth ! 

Harold. They shout as they would 

have her for a queen. 
Morcar. She hath followed with our 

host, and suffer'd all. 
Harold. What would ye, men 1 
Voice. Our old Northumbrian 

crown, 
And kings of our own choosing. 

Harold. Your old crown 

Were little help without oui Saxon 

carle 
Against Hardrada. 

Voice. Little! we are Danes. 

Who conquer 'd what we walk on, our 

own field. 

Harold. They have been plotting 

here ! [Aside. 

Voice. He calls us little ! 

Harold. The kingdoms of this world 

began with little, 

A hill, a fort, a city — that reach'd a 

hand 
Down to the field beneath it, " Be thou 

mine," 
Then to the next, "Thou also!" If 

the field 
Cried out " I am mine own ; " another 

bill 
Or fort, or city, took it, and the first 
Fell, and the next became an Empire. 



794 



HAROLD. 



Voice. Yet 

Thou art but a West Saxon : we are 

Danes ! 

Harold. My mother is a Dane, and 

I am English ; 

There is a pleasant fable in old books, 

Ye take a stick, and break it ; bind a 

score 
All in one faggot, snap it over knee, 
Ye cannot. 

Voice. Hear King Harold ! he 

says true ! 
Harold. Would ye be Norsemen ? 
Voices. No ! 

Harold. Or Norman 1 

Voices. No ! 

Harold. Snap not the faggot-band 

then. 
Voice. That is true ! 

Voice. Ah, but thou art not kingly, 
only grandson 
To Wulfnoth, a poor cow-herd. 

Harold. This old Wulfnoth 

Would take me on his knees and tell 

me tales 
Of Alfred and of Athelstan the Great 
Who drove you Danes; and yet he 

held that Dane, 
Jute, Angle, Saxon, were or should 

be all 
One England, for this cow-herd, like 

my father, 
Who shook the Norman scoundrels 

off the throne, 
Had in him kingly thoughts — a king 

of men, 
Not made but born, like the great 

king of all, 
A light among the oxen. 

Voice. That is true ! 

Voice. Ah, and I love him now, for 
mine own father 
Was great, and cobbled. 

Voice. Thou art Tostig's brother, 
Who wastes the land. 

Harold. This brother comes to save 
Your land from waste ; I saved it 

once before, 
For when your people banish'd Tostig 

hence, 
And Edward would have sent a host 
against you, 



Then I, who loved my brother, bade 

the king 
Who doted on him, sanction your de- 
cree 
Of Tostig's banishment, and choice 

of Morcar, 
To help the realm from scattering. 

Voice. King ! thy brother, 

If one may dare to speak the truth. 

was wrong'd. 
Wild was he, born so : but the plots 

against him 
Had maddened tamer men. 

Morcar. Thou art one of those 

Who brake into Lord Tostig's treas- 
ure-house 
And slew two hundred of his following, 
And now, when Tostig hath come back 

with power, 
Are frighted back to Tostig. 

Old Thane. Ugh ! Plots and feuds ! 
This is my ninetieth birthday. Can 

ye not 
Be brethren ? Godwin still at feud 

with Alfgar, 
And Alfgar hates King Harold. Plots 

and feuds ! 
This is my ninetieth birthday ! 

Harold. Old man, Harold 

Hates nothing; not his fault, if our 

two houses 
Be less than brothers. 

Voices. Aldwyth, Harold, Aldwyth ! 
Harold. Again ! Morcar ! Edwin ! 

What do they mean ? 
Edwin. So the good king would 

deign to lend an ear 
Not overscornf ul, we might chance — 

perchance — 
To guess their meaning. 

Morcar. Thine own meaning, Har- 
old, 
To make all England one, to close all 

feuds, 
Mixing our bloods, that thence a king 

may rise 
Half-Godwin and half-Alfgar, one to 

rule 
All England beyond question, beyond 

quarrel. 
Harold. Who sow'd this fancy here 

among the people 1 



HAROLD. 



795 



Morcar. Who knows what sows 
itself among the people ? 
A goodly flower at times. 

Harold. The Queen of Wales ? 

Why, Morcar, it is all but duty in 

her 
To hate me ; I have heard she hates 
me. 
Morcar. No ! 

For I can swear to that, but cannot 

swear 
That these will follow thee against 

the Norsemen, 
If thou deny them this. 

Harold. Morcar and Edwin, 

When will ye cease to plot against 

my house ? 

Edwin. The king can scarcely 

dream that we, who know 

His prowess in the mountains of the 

West, 
Should care to plot against him in 
the North. 
Murcar. Who dares arraign us, 

king, of such a plot 1 
Harold. Ye heard one witness even 

now. 
Morcar. The craven ! 

There is a faction risen again for 

Tostig, 
Since Tostig came with Norway — 
fright not love. 
Harold. Morcar and Edwin, will ye, 
if I yield, 
Follow against the Norseman ? 

Mori':,. Surely, surely ! 

Harold. Morcar and Edwin, will ye 
upon oath, 
Help us against the Norman 1 

Mo With good will ; 

Yea, take the Sacrament upon it, king. 
Harold. Where is thy sister ? 
Morcar. Somewhere hard at hand. 
(all and she comes. 

[One goes oat, then enter Aldwyth. 
Harold. Idoubtnotbutthouknowest 
Why thou art summonM. 

Aldwyth. Why ? — I stay with these, 
Lest thy fierce Tostig spy me out 

alone. 
And flay me all alive. 

Harold. Canst thou love one 



Who did discrown thine husband, un- 

queen thee 1 
Didst thou not love thine husband ? 

Aldwyth. Oh ! my lord, 

The nimble, wild, red, wiry, savage 

king — 
That was, my lord, a match of policy. 
Harold. Was it 1 

I knew him brave : he loved his land : 

he fain 
Had made her great : his finger on her 

harp 
(I heard him more than once) had in 

it Wales, 
Her floods, her woods, her hills : had 

I been his, 
I had been all Welsh. 

Aldwyth. Oh, ay — all Welsh — 

and yet 
I saw thee drive him up his hills — 

and women 
Cling to the conquer'd, if they love, 

the more ; 
If not, they cannot hate the conqueror. 
We never — oh ! good Morcar, speak 

for us, 
His conqueror conquer'd Aldwyth. 
Harold. Goodly news ! 

Morcar. Doubt it not thou ! Since 

Griffyth's head was sent 
To Edward, she hath said it. 

Harold. I had rather 

She would have loved her husband. 

Aldwyth, Aldwyth, 
Canst thou love me, thou knowing 

where I love ? 
Aldwyth. I can, my lord, for mine 

own sake, for thine, 
For England, for thy poor white dove, 

who flutters 
Between thee and the porch, but then 

would find 
Her nest within the cloister, and be 

still. 
Harold. Canst thou love one, who 

cannot love again ? 
Aldwyth. Full hope have I that love 

will answer love. 
Harold. Then in the name of the 

great God, so be it ! 
Come, Aldred, join our hands before 

the hosts, 



796 



HAROLD. 



That all may see. 

[Aldred joins the hands of Harold 

and Aldwyth and blesses them. 
Voices. Harold, Harold and Ald- 

wyth ! 
Harold. Set forth our golden Dra- 
gon, let him flap 
The wings that beat down Wales ! 
Advance our Standard of the Warrior, 
Dark among gems and gold ; and 

thou, brave banner, 
Blaze like a night of fatal stars on 

those 
Who read their doom and die. 
Where lie the Norsemen ? on the 

Derwent ? ay 
At Stamford-bridge. 
Morcar, collect thy men ; Edwin, my 

friend — 
Thou lingerest. — Gurth, — 
Last night King Edward came to me 

in dreams — 
The rosy face and long down-silvering 

beard — 
He told me I should conquer : — 
I am no woman to put faith in dreams. 

(To his army.) 
Last night King Edward came to me 

in dreams, 
And told me we should conquer. 

Voices. Forward ! Forward ! 

Harold and Holy Cross ! 
Aldwyth. The day is won ! 

SCENE II. — A Plain. Before the 
Battle of Stamford-Bridge. 

Harold and his Guard. 

Harold. Who is it comes this way 1 
Tostig ? (Enter Tostig with a 
small force.) brother, 
What art thou doing here ? 

Tostig. I am foraging 

For Norway's army. 

Harold. I could take and slay thee. 
Thou art in arms against us. 

Tostig. Take and slay me, 

For Edward loved me. 

Harold. Edward bade me spare 

thee. 
Tostig. I hate King Edward, for he 
join'd with thee 



To drive me outlaw'd. Take and slay 

me, I say, 
Or I shall count thee fool. 

Harold. Take thee, or free thee. 
Free thee or slay thee, Norway will 

have war; 
No man would strike with Tostig, save 

for Norway. 
Thou art nothing in thine England, 

save for Norway, 
Who loves not thee but war. What 

dost thou here, 
Trampling thy mother's bosom into 

blood ? 
Tostig. She hath wean'd me from 

it with such bitterness. 
I come for mine own Earldom, my 

Northumbria ; 
Thou hast given it to the enemy of 

our house. 
Harold. Northumbria threw thee 

off, she will not have thee, 
Thou hast misused her : and, crown- 
ing crime ! 
Hast murder'd thine own guest, the 

son of Orm, 
Gamel, at thine own hearth. 

Tostig. The slow, fat fool ! 

He drawl'd and prated so, I smote 

him suddenly, 
I knew not what I did. He held with 

Morcar. — 
I hate myself for all things that I 

do. 
Harold. And Morcar holds with 

us. Come back with him. 
Know what thou dost; and we may 

find for thee, 
So thou be chasten'd by thy banish- 
ment, 
Some easier earldom. 

Tostig. What for Norway then ? 
He looks for land among us, he and 

his. 
Harold. Seven feet of English land, 

or something more, 
Seeing he is a giant. 

Tostig. That is noble ! 

That sounds of Godwin. 

Harold. Come thou back, and 

be 
Once more a son of Godwin. 



HAROLD. 



797 



Tostig (turns away), brother, 
brother, 

Harold — 

Harold (la;ihi(j his hand an Tostig'? 

shoulder). Nay then, come thou 

back to us ! 
Tostig (after a pause turning to him). 

Never shall any man say that I, 

that Tostig 
Conjured the mightier Harold from 

his North 
To do the battle for me here in Eng- 
land, 
Then left him for the meaner ! 

thee ! — 
Thou hast no passion for the House 

of Godwin — 
Thou hast but cared to make thyself 

a king — 
Thou hast sold me for a cry. — 
Thou gavest thy voice against me in 

the Council — 

1 hate thee, and despise thee, and defy 

thee. 
Farewell for ever ! [Exit. 

Harold. On to Stamford-bridge ! 



SCENE III. 

After the Battle of Stamford- 
Bridge. Banquet. 

Harold and Aldwyth. Gurth, 
Leofwin, Morcar, Edwin, and 
other Earls and Thanes. 

Voices. Hail! Harold! Aldwyth! 

hail, bridegroom and bride ! 
Aldwyth (talking with Harold). An- 
swer them thou ! 
Is this our marriage-banquet ? Would 

the wines 
Of wedding had been dash'd into the 

cups 
Of victory, and our marriage and thy 

glory 
Been drunk together ! these poor 

hands but sew, 
Spin, broider — would that they were 

man's to have held 
The battle-axe by thee ! 



Harold. There icas a moment 

When being forced aloof from all my 

guard, 
And striking at Hardrada and his 

madmen 
I had wish'd for any weapon. 

Aldwyth. Why art thou sad 1 

Harold. I have lost the boy who 
play'd at ball with me, 
With whom I fought another fight 

than this 
Of Stamford-bridge. 

Aldwyth. Ay ! ay ! thy victories 

Over our own poor Wales, when at 

thy side 
He conquer'd with thee. 

Harold. No — the childish fist 

That cannot strike again. 

Aldwyth. Thou art too kindly. 

Why didst thou let so many Norse- 
men hence ? 
Thy fierce forekings had clench'd 

their pirate hides 
To the bleak church doors, like kites 
upon a barn. 
Harold. Is there so great a need to 

tell thee why ? 
Aldwyth. Yea, am I not thy wife ? 
Voices. Hail, Harold, Aldwyth! 

Bridegroom and bride ! 
Aldwyth. Answer them ! 

[To Harold. 

Harold (to all). Earls and Thanes ! 

Full thanks for your fair greeting of 

my bride ! 
Earls, Thanes, and all our country- 
men ! the day, 
Our day beside the Derwent will not 

shine 
Less than a star among the goldenest 

hours 
Of Alfred, or of Edward his great 

son, 
Or Athelstan, or English Ironside 
Who fought with Knut, or Knut who 

coming Dane 
Died English. Every man about his 

king 
Fought like a king; the king like his 

own man, 
No better ; one for all, and all for 



798 



HAROLD. 



One soul ! and therefore have we shat- 
tered back 
The hugest wave from Norseland ever 

yet 
Surged on us, and our battle-axes 

broken 
The Raven's wing, and dumb'd his 

carrion croak 
From the gray sea for ever. Many 

are gone — 
Drink to the dead who died for us, the 

living 
Who fought and would have died, but 

happier lived, 
If happier be to live ; they both have 

life 
In the large mouth of England, till 

her voice 
Die with the world. Hail — hail ! 
Morcar. May all invaders perish 

like Hardrada ! 
All traitors fail like Tostig ! 

[All drink but Harold. 
Aldwyth. Thy cup's full ! 

Harold. I saw the hand of Tostig 

cover it. 
Our dear, dead, traitor-brother, Tostig, 

him 
Reverently we buried. Friends, had 

I been here, 
Without too large self-lauding I must 

hold 
The sequel had been other than his 

league 
With Norway, and this battle. Peace 

be with him ! 
He was not of the worst. If there be 

those 
At banquet in this hall, and hearing 

me — 
For there be those I fear who prick'd 

the lion 
To make him spring, that sight of 

Danish blood 
Might serve an end not English — 

peace with them 
Likewise, if they can be at peace with 

what 
God gave us to divide us from the wolf ! 
Aldwyth (aside to Harold). Make 

not our Morcar sullen : it is not 

wise. 



Harold. Hail to the living who 

fought, the dead who fell ! 
Voices. Hail, hail ! 
First Thane. How ran that answer 
which King Harold gave 
To his dead namesake, when he ask'd 
for England ? 
Leo/win. " Seven feet of English 
earth, or something more, 
Seeing he is a giant ! " 

First Thane. Then for the bastard 
Six feet and nothing more ! 

Leo/win. Ay, but belike 

Thou hast not learnt his measure. 

First Thane. By St. Edmund 

I over-measure him. Sound sleep to 

the man 
Here by dead Norway without dream 
or dawn ! 
Second Thane. What is he brag- 
ging still that he will come 
To thrust our Harold's throne from 

under him ? 
My nurse would tell me of a molehill 

crying 
To a mountain " Stand aside and room 
for me ! " 
First Thane. Let him come! let him 
come. Here's to him, sink or 
swim ! [Drinks. 

Second Thane. God sink him ! 
First Thane. Cannot hands which 
had the strength 
To shove that stranded iceberg off 

our shores, 
And send the shatter'd North again 

to sea, 
Scuttle his cockle-shell ? What's 

Brunanburg 
To Stamford-bridge ? a war-crash, and 

so hard, 
So loud, that, by St. Dunstan, old St. 

Thor — 
By God, we thought him dead — but 

our old Thor 
Heard his own thunder again, and 

woke and came 
Among us again, and mark'd the sons 

of those 
Who made this Britain England, 
break the North : 



HAROLD. 



799 



Mark'd how the war-axe swang, 
Heard how the war-horn sang, 
Mark'd how the spear-head sprang, 
Heard how the shield-wall rang, 
Iron on iron clang, 
Anvil on hammer bang — 

Second Thane. Hammer on anvil, 
hammer on anvil. Old dog, 
Thou art drunk, old dog ! 

First Thane. Too drunk to fight 
with thee ! 

Second Thane. Fight thou with 
thine own double, not with me, 
Keep that for Norman William ! 

First Thane. Down with William! 

Third Thane. The washerwoman's 
brat! 

Fourth Thane. The tanner's bas- 
tard ! 

Fifth Thane. The Falaise byblow! 

[Enter a Thane from Pevensey, 
spatter'd with mud. 

Harold. Ay, but what late guest, 

As haggard as a fast of forty days, 

And caked and plaster'd with a hun- 
dred mires, 

Hath stumbled on our cups ? 

Thane from Pevensey. My lord the 
King! 

William the Norman, for the wind had 
changed — 
Harold. I felt it in the middle of 
that fierce fight 

At Stamford-bridge. William hath 
landed, ha ? 
Thane from Pevensey. Landed at 
Pevensey — I am from Peven- 
sey — 

Hath wasted all the land at Peven- 
sey— 

Hath harried mine own cattle — God 
confound him ! 

I have ridden night and day from 
Pevensey — 

A thousand ships — a hundred thou- 
sand men — 

Thousands of horses, like as many 
lions 

Neighing and roaring as they leapt to 
ltnd — 



Harold. How oft in coming hast 

thou broken bread ? 
Thane from Pevensey. Some thrice, 

or so. 
Harold. Bring not thy hollowness 
On our full feast. Famine is fear, 

were it but 
Of being starved. Sit down, sit down, 

and eat, 
And, when again red-blooded, speak 

again ; 
(Aside.) The men that guarded 

England to the South 
Were scatter'd to the harvest. . . . 

No power mine 
To hold their force together. . . . 

Many are fallen 
At Stamford-bridge . . . the people 

stupid-sure 
Sleep like their swine ... in South 

and North at once 
I could not be. 

(Aloud.) Gurth, Leofwin, Morcar, 

Edwin ! 
(Pointing to the revellers.) The curse 

of England ! these are drown'd 

in wassail, 
And cannot see the world but thro' 

their wines ! 
Leave them ! and thee too, Aldwyth, 

must I leave — 
Harsh is the news ! hard is our honey. 

moon! 
Thy pardon. (Turning round to his 

attendants.) Break the banquet 

up . . . Ye four ! 
And thou, my carrier-pigeon of black 

news, 
Cram thy crop full, but come when 

thou art call'd. [Exit Harold. 

ACT V. • 

SCENE I. — A Tent on a Mound, 
from which can be seen the 
Field of Senlac. 

Harold, sitting ; by lam standing Hugh 
Margot the Monk, Gurth, Leof- 



Harold. Refer my cause, my crown 
to Rome ! . . . The wolf 



800 



HAROLD. 



Mudded the brook and predetermined 

all. 
Monk, 
Thou hast said thy say, and had my 

constant " No " 
For all but instant battle. I hear no 

more. 
Margot. Hear me again — for the 

last time. Arise, 
Scatter thy people home, descend the 

hill, 
Lay hands of full allegiance in thy 

Lord's 
And crave his mercy, for the Holy 

Father 
Hath given this realm of England to 

the Norman. 
Harold. Then for the last time, 

monk, I ask again 
When had the Lateran and the Holy 

Father 
To do with England's choice of her 

own king 1 
Margot. Earl, the first Christian 

Caesar drew to the East 
To leave the Pope dominion in the 

West. 
He gave him all the kingdoms of the 

West. 
Harold. So ! — did he 1 — Earl — I 

have a mind to play 
The William with thine eyesight and 

thy tongue. 
Earl — ay — thou art but but a messen- 
ger of William. 
I am weary — go : make me not wroth 

with thee ! 
Margot. Mock-king, I am the mes- 
senger of God, 
His Norman Daniel ! Mene, Mene, 

Tekel ! 
Is thy wrath Hell, that I should spare 

to cry*, 
Yon heaven is wroth with thee ? Hear 

me again ! 
Our Saints have moved the Church 

that moves the world, 
And all the Heavens and very God : 

they heard — 
They know King Edward's promise 

and thine — thine. 



Harold. Should they not know free 

England crowns herself ? 
Not know that he nor I had power to 

promise ? 
Not know that Edward cancell'd his 

own promise ? 
And for my part therein — Back to 

that juggler, [Rising. 

Tell him the Saints are nobler than he 

dreams, 
Tell him that God is nobler than the 

Saints, 
And tell him we stand arm'd on Senlac 

Hill, 
And bide the doom of God. 

Margot. Hear it thro' me. 

The realm for which thou art forsworn 

is cursed, 
The babe enwomb'd and at the breast 

is cursed, 
The corpse thou whelmest with thine 

earth is cursed, 
The soul who fighteth on thy side is 

cursed, 
The seed thou sowest in thy field is 

cursed, 
The steer wherewith thou plowest thy 

field is cursed, 
The fowl that fleeth o'er thy field is 

cursed, 
And thou, usurper, liar — 

Harold. Out, beast monk ! 

[Lifting his hand to strike him. 
Gurth stops the blow. 
I ever hated monks. 

Margot. I am but a voice 

Among you : murder, martyr me if ye 

will — 
Harold. Thanks, Gurth ! The 

simple, silent, selfless man 
Is worth a world of tonguesters. (To 

Margot.) Get thee gone! 
He means the thing he says. See him 

out safe ! 
Leo/win. He hath blown himself as 

red as fire with curses. 
Anhonestfool! Followme, honest fool, 
But if thou blurt thy curse among our 

folk, 
I know not — I may give that egg- 
bald head 
The tap that silences. 



HAROLD. 



801 



Harold. See him out safe. 

[Exeunt Leofwin and Margot. 

Gurth. Thou hast lost thine even 

temper, brother Harold! 
Harold. Gurth, when I past by 

Waltham, my foundation 
For men who serve the neighbor, not 

themselves, 
I cast me down prone, praying ; and, 

when I rose, 
They told me that the Holy Rood had 

lean'd 
And bow'd above me; whether that 

which held it 
Had weaken'd, and the Rood itself 

were bound 
To that necessity which binds us down; 
Whether it bow'd at all but in their 

fancy ; 
Or if it bow'd, whether it symbol'd ruin 
Or glory, who shall tell? but they 

were sad, 
And somewhat sadden'd me. 

Gurth. Yet if a fear, 

Or shadow of a fear, lest the strange 

Saints 
By whom thou swarest, should have 

power to balk 
Thy puissance in this fight with him, 

who made 
And heard thee swear — brother — / 

have not sworn — 
If the king fall, may not the kingdom 

fall? 
But if I fall, I fall, and thou art king ; 
And, if I win, I win. and thou art king ; 
Draw thou to London, there make 

strength to breast 
Whatever chance, but leave this day 

to me. 
Leo/win {entering). And waste the 

land about thee as thou goest, 
And be thy hand as winter on the field, 
To leave the foe no forage. 

Harold. Noble Gurth ! 

Best son of Godwin ! If I fall, I fall — 
The doom of God ! How should the 

people fight 
When the king flies 1 And, Leofwin, 

art thou mad ? 
How should the King of England 

waste the fields 



Of England, his own people ? — No 

glance yet 
Of the Northumbrian helmet on the 

heath ? 
Leofwin. No, but a shoal of wives 

upon the heath, 
And someone saw thy willy-nilly nun 
Vying a tress against our golden 

fern. 
Harold. Vying a tear with our cold 

dews, a sigh 
With these low-moaning heavens. 

Let her be fetch'd. 
Wc have parted from our wife without 

reproach, 
Tho' we have dived thro' all her prac- 
tices ; 
And that is well. 

Leofwin. I saw her even now : 

She hath not left us. 

Harold. Nought of Morcar then ? 
Gurth. Nor seen, nor heard ; thine, 

William's or his own 
As wind blows, or tide flows : belike 

he watches, 
If this war-storm in one of its rough 

rolls 
Wash up that old crown of Northum- 
berland. 
Harold. I had married her for 

Morcar — a sin against 
The truth of love. Evil for good, it 

seems, 
Is oft as childless of the good as evil. 
For evil. 

Leofwin. Good for good hath borne 

at times 
A bastard false as William. 

Harold. Ay, if Wisdom 

Pair'd not with Good. But I am 

somewhat worn, 
A snatch of sleep were like the peace 

of God. 
Gurth, Leofwin, go once more about 

the hill — 
What did the dead man call it — San- 

guelac, 
The lake of blood ? 

Leofwin. A lake that dips in Wil- 
liam 
As well as Harold. 

Harold. Like enough. I have seen 



802 



HAROLD. 






The trenches dug, the palisades up- 

rear'd 
And wattled thick with ash and wil- 
low-wands ; 
Yea, wrought at them myself. Go 

round once more ; 
See all be sound and whole. No Nor- 
man horse 
Can shatter England, standing shield 

by shield ; 
Tell that again to all. 

Gurth. I will, good brother. 

Harold. Our guardsman hath but 

toil'd his hand and foot, 

I hand, foot, heart and head. Some 

wine ! ( One pours wine into a 

goblet which he hands to Harold.) 

Too much ! 

What ? we must use our battle-axe 

to-day. 
Our guardsmen have slept well, since 
we came in ? 
Leo/win. Ay, slept and snored. 
Your second-sighted man 
That scared the dying conscience of 

the king, 
Misheard their snores for groans. 

They are up again 
And chanting that old song of Brunan- 

burg 
Where England conquer'd. 

Harold. That is well. The Norman, 
What is he doing ? 

Leo/win. Praying for Normandy ; 
Our scouts have heard the tinkle of 
their bells. 
Harold. And our old songs are 
prayers for England too ! 
But by all Saints — 

Leofwin. Barring the Norman ! 
Harold. Nay, 

Were the great trumpet blowing 

doomsday dawn, 
I needs must rest. Call when the 
Norman moves — 

[Exeunt all but Harold. 
No horse — thousand of horses — our 

shield wall — 
Wall — break it not — break not — 
break — [Sleeps. 

Vision of Edward. Son Harold, I 
thy king, who came before 



To tell thee thou shouldst win at 

Stamford-bridge, 
Come yet once more, from where I am 

at peace, 
Because I loved thee in my mortal 

day, 
To tell thee thou shalt die on Senlac 

hill — 
Sanguelac ! 

Vision of Wulfnoth . brother, from 

my ghastly oubliette 
I send my voice across the narrow 

seas — 
No more, no more, dear brother, 

nevermore — 
Sanguelac ! 

Vision of Tostig. brother, most 

unbrotherlike to me, 
Thou gavest thy voice against me in 

my life, 
I give my voice against thee from the 

grave — 
Sanguelac ! 

Vision of Norman Saints. hapless 

Harold ! King but for an hour! 
Thou swarest falsely by our blessed 

bones, 
We give our voice against thee out of 

heaven ! 
Sanguelac ! Sanguelac ! The arrow ! 

the arrow! 
Harold (starting up, battle-axe in 

hand). Away! 

My battle-axe against your voices. 

Peace ! 
The king's last word — " the arrow ! " 

I shall die — 
I die for England then, who lived for 

England — 
What nobler 1 men must die. 
I cannot fall into a falser world — 
I have done no man wrong. Tostig, 

poor brother, 
Art thou so anger'd 1 
Fain had I kept thine earldom in thy 

hands 
Save for thy wild and violent will 

that wrench'd 
All hearts of freemen from thee. I 

could do 
No other than this way advise the 

king 



HAROLD. 



803 



Against the race of Godwin. Is it 

possible 
That mortal men should bear their 

earthly heats 
Into yon bloodless world, and threaten 

us thence 
Unschool'd of Death? Thus then 

thou art revenged — 
I left our England naked to the South 
To meet thee in the North. The 

Norseman's raid 
Hath helpt the Norman, and the race 

of Godwin 
Hath ruin'd Godwin. No — our wak- 
ing thoughts 
Suffer a stormless shipwreck in the 

pools 
Of sullen slumber, and arise again 
Disjointed : only dreams — where 

mine own self 
Takes part against myself ! Why 1 

for a spark 
Of self-disdain born in me when I 

sware 
Falsely to him, the falser Norman, 

over 
His gilded ark of mummy-saints, by 

whom 
I knew not that I sware, — not for my- 
self— 
For England — yet not wholly — 

(Enter Edith.) 

Edith, Edith, 
Get thou into thy cloister as the king 
Will'd it : be safe : the perjury-mon- 

gering Count 
Hath made too good an use of Holy 

Church 
To break her close ! There the great 

God of truth 
Fill all thine hours with peace! — A 

lying devil 
Hath haunted me — mine oath — my 

wife — I fain 
Had made my marriage not a lie ; I 

could not : 
Thou art my bride ! and thou in after 

years 
Praying perchance for this poor soul 

of mine 



In cold, white cells beneath an icy 

moon — 
This memory to thee ! — and this to 

England, 
My legacy of war against the Pope 
From child to child, from Pope to 

Pope, from age to age, 
Till the sea wash her level with her 

shores, 
Or till the Pope be Christ's. 

Enter Aldwyth. 

Aldwyth (to Edith). Away from 

him ! 
Edith. I will ... I have not spoken 
to the king 
One word ; and one I must. Farewell ! 

[Going. 
Harold. Not yet. 

Stay. 

Edith. To what use * 
Harold. The king commands thee, 
woman ! 

(To Aldwyth.) 
Have thy two brethren sent theirforces 
in? 
Aldwyth. Nay, I fear not. 
Harold. Then there's no force in 
thee ! 
Thou didst possess thyself of Edward's 

ear 
To part me from the woman that I 

loved ! 
Thou didst arouse the fierce Northum- 
brians ! 
Thou hast been false to England and 

to me ! — 
As ... in some sort ... I have been 

false to thee. 
Leave me. No more — Pardon on both 
sides — go ! 
Aldwyth. Alas, my lord, I loved thee! 
Harold (bitterly). With a love 

Passing thy love for Griffyth ! where- 
fore now 
Obey my first and last commandment. 
Go! 
Aldwyth. O Harold! husband! Shall 

we meet again 1 
Harold. After the battle — after 
the battle. Go. 



804 



HAROLD. 



Aldwyth. I go. (Aside.) That I 
could stab her standing there ! 
[Exit Aldwyth. 
Edith. Alas, my lord, she loved thee. 
Harold. Never ! never ! 

Edith. I saw it in her eyes ! 
Harold. I see it in thine. 

And not on thee — nor England — fall 
God's doom ! 
Edith. On thee ? on me. And thou 
art England ! Alfred 
Was England. Ethelred was nothing. 

England 
Is but her king, and thou art Harold ! 
Harold. Edith, 

The sign in heaven — the sudden blast 

at sea — 
My fatal oath — the dead Saints- — the 

dark dreams — 
The Pope's Anathema — the Holy 

Kood 
Thatbow'dto me at Waltham — Edith, 

if 
I, the last English king of England — 
Edith. No, 

First of a line that coming from the 

people, 
And chosen by the people — 

Harold. And fighting for 

And dying for the people — 

Edith. Living ! living ! 

Harold. Yea so, good cheer ! thou 
art Harold, I am Edith ! 
Look not thus wan ! 

Edith. What matters how I look ? 
Have we not broken Wales and Norse- 
land ? slain, 
Whose life was all one battle, incar- 
nate war, 
Their giant-king," a mightier man-in- 
arms 
Than William. 

Harold. Ay, my girl, no tricks in 
him — 
No bastard he ! when all was lost, he 

yell'd, 
And bit his shield, and dash'd it on the 

ground, 
And swaying his two-handed sword 

about him, 
Two deaths at every swing, ran in upon 
us 



And died so, and I loved him as I hate 
This liar who made me liar. If Hate 

can kill, 
And Loathing wield a Saxon battle- 
axe — 
Edith. Waste not thy might before 

the battle ! 
Harold. No, 

And thou must hence. Stigand will 

see thee safe, 
And so — Farewell. 

[He is going, but turns back. 
The ring thou darest not wear, 
I have had it fashion'd, see, to meet 
my hand. 
[Harold shows the ring which is on 
his finger. 
Farewell ! 

\_He is going, but turns back again. 
I am as dead as Death this day to ought 

of earth's 
Save William's death or mine. 

Edith. Thy death ! — to-day ! 

Is it not thy birthday ? 

Harold. Ay, that happy day ! 

A birthday welcome ! happy days and 

many ! 
One — this ! [They embrace. 

Look, I will bear thy blessing into the 

battle 
And front the doom of God. 
Norman cries {heard in the distance). 
Ha Rou ! Ha Rou ! 

Enter Gurth. 
Gurth. The Norman moves ! 
Harold. Harold and Holy Cross ! 
[Exeunt Harold and Gurth. 

Enter Stigand. 
Stigand. Our Church in arms — the 

lamb the lion — not 
Spear into pruning-hook — the counter 

way — 
Cowl, helm ; and crozier, battle-axe. 

Abbot Alfwig, 
Leofric, and all the monks of Peter- 

boro' 
Strike for the king ; but I, old wretch, 

old Stigand, 
With hands too limp to brandish iron 

— and yet 



HAROLD. 



80S 



I have a power — would Harold ask 

rue for it — 
I have a power. 

Edith. What power, holy father ? 
Stigand. Power now from Harold 
to command thee hence 
And see thee safe from Senlac. 

Edith. I remain ! 

Stigand. Yea, so will I, daughter, 
until I find 
Which way the battle balanee. I can 

see it 
From where we stand : and, live or 

die, I would 
I were among them ! 

Canons from Waltham (singing without). 

Salva patriam 
Sancte Pater, 
Salva Fili, 
Salva Spiritus, 
Salva patriam, 
Sancta Mater. 1 

Edith. Are those the blessed angels 

quiring, father I 
Stigand. No, daughter, but the 
canons out of Waltham, 
The king's foundation, that have fol- 
low'd him. 
Edith. God of battles, make their 
wall of shields 
Firm as thy cliffs, strengthen their 

palisades ! 
What is that whirring sound ? 

Stigand. The Norman arrow ! 

Edith. Look out upon the battle — 

is he safe ? 
Stigand. The king of England 
stands between his banners. 
He glitters on the crowning of the hill. 
God save King Harold ! 

Edith. — chosen by his people 

And fighting for his people ! 

Stigand. There is one 

Come as Goliath came of yore — he 

flings 
His brand in air and catches it again, 
He is chanting some old warsong. 
Edith. And no David 

1 The a throughout these Latin hymnn 
should be sounded broad, as in *' father." 



To meet him ? 

Stigand. Ay, there springs a Saxon 

on him, 
Falls — and another falls. 

Edith. Have mercy on us ! 

Stigand. Lo! our good Gurth hath 

smitten him to the death. 
Edith. So perish all the enemies of 

Harold ! 
Canons (singing). 

Hostis in Angliam 

Ruit praedator, 
Illorum, Domine, 

Scutum scindatur! 
Hostis per Anglise 

Plagas bacchatur ; 

Casa crematur 

Pastor fugatur 

Grex trucidatur — 

Stigand. Illos trucida, Domine. 
Edith. Ay, good father, 

Canons (singing). 

Illorum scelera 
Poena sequatur ! 
English cries. Harold and Holy 

Cross ! Out! out! 
Stigand. Our javelins 

Answer their arrows. All the Nor- 
man foot 
Are storming up the hill. The range 

of knights 
Sit, each a statue on his horse, and 
wait. 
English cries. Harold and God Al- 
mighty ! 
Norman cries. Ha Rou ! Ha Rou! 
Canons (singing). 

Eques cum pedite 

Prsepediatur ! 
Illorum in lacrymas 

Cruor fundatur! 
Pereant, pereant, 
Anglia precatur. 
Stigand. Look, daughter, look. 
Edith. Nay, father, look for me! 
Stigand. Our axes lighten with a sin- 
gle flash 
About the summit of the hill, and heads 
And arms are sliver'd off and splin- 
ter'd by 



806 



HAROLD. 



Their lightning — and they fly — the 
Norman flies. 
Edith. Stigand, father, have we 

won the day ? 
Stigand. No, daughter, no — they 
fall behind the horse — 
Their horse are thronging to the bar- 
ricades ; 
I see the gonf anon of Holy Peter 
Floating above their helmets — ha ! 
lie is down ! 
Edith. He down ! Who down ? 
Stigand. The Norman Count is 

down. 
Edith. So perish all the enemies of 

England ! 
Stigand. No, no, he hath risen 
again — he bares his face — 
Shouts something — he points onward 

— all their horse 
Swallow the hill locust-like, swarming 
up. 
Edith. God of battles, make his 
battle-axe keen 
As thine own sharp-dividing justice, 

heavy 
As thine own bolts that fall on crime- 

ful heads 
Charged with the weight of heaven 
wherefrom they fall ! 
Canons (singing). 

Jacta tonitrua 
Deus bellator ! 

Surgas e tenebris, 
Sis vindicator! 

Fulmina, fulmina, 
Deus vastator ! 

Edith. O God of battles, they are 
three to one, 
Make thou one man as three to roll 
them down ! 
Canons (singing). 

Equus cum equite 

Dejiciatur ! 
Acies, Acies 
Prona sternatur ! 
Illorum lanceas 
Frange Creator ! 

Stigand. Yea, yea, for how their 
lances snap and shiver 



Against the shifting blaze of Harold's 

axe ! 
War-woodman of old Woden, how he 

fells 
The mortal copse of faces ! There ! 

And there ! 
The horse and horseman cannot meet 

the shield, 
The blow that brains the horseman 

cleaves the horse, 
The horse and horseman roll along 

the hill, 
They fly once more, they fly, the Nor- 
man flies ! 

Equus cum equite 
Praecipitatur. 

Edith. God, the God of truth hath 
heard my cry. 
Follow them, follow them, drive them 
to the sea ! 

Illorum scelera 
Poena sequatur ! 

Stigand. Truth ! no ; a lie ; a trick, 
a Norman trick ! 
They turn on the pursuer, horse against 

foot, 
They murder all that follow. 

Edith. Have mercy on us ! 

Stigand. Hot-headedfools — toburst 
the wall of shields ! 
They have broken the commandment 
of the king ! 
Edith. His oath was broken — 
holy Norman Saints, 
Ye that now are of heaven, and see 

beyond 
Your Norman shrines, pardon it, par- 
don it, 
That he forsware himself for all he 

loved, 
Me, me and all ! Look out upon the 
battle ! 
Stigand. They thunder again upon 
the barricades. 
My sight is eagle, but the strife sc 

thick — 
This is the hottest of it : hold, ash J 
hold, willow ! 
English cries. Out, out ! 
Norman cries. Ha Roul 



HAROLD. 



807 



Stigand. Ha! Gurth hath leapt upon 
him 
And slain him : he hath fallen. 

Edith. And I am heard. 

Glory to God in the Highest! fallen, 

fallen ! 

Stigand. No, no, his horse — he 

mounts another — wields 

His war-club, dashes it on Gurth, and 

Gurth, 
Our noble Gurth, is down ! 

Edith. Have mercy on us ! 

Stigand. And Leofwin is down ! 
Edith. Have mercy on us ! 

O Thou that knowest, let not my strong 

prayer 
Be weaken'd in thy sight, because I 

love 
The husband of another ! 

Norman cries. Ha Rou ! Ha Rou! 
Edith. I do not hear our English 

war-cry. 
Stigand. No. 

Edith. Look out upon the battle — 

is he safe 7 
Stigand. He stands between the 
banners with the dead 
So piled about him he can hardly 
move. 
Ediih (takes itp the war-cry). Out! 

out! 
Norman cries. Ha Rou ! 
Edith (cries out). Harold and Holy 

Cross ! 
Norman cries. Ha Rou ! Ha Rou ! 
Edith. What is that whirring sound? 
Stigand. The Norman sends his ar- 
rows up to Heaven, 
They fall on those within the palisade ! 
Edith. Look out upon the hill — is 

Harold there ? 
Stigand. Sanguelac — Sanguelac — 
the arrow — the arrow! — away! 

SCENE II. —Field of the Dead. 
Night. 

Aldwyth and Edith. 
Aldwyth. Edith, art thou here ? 
6 Harold, Harold — 
Our Harold — we shall never see him 
more. 



Edith. For there was more than sis- 
ter in my kiss, 
And so the saints were wroth. I can- 
not love them, 
For they are Norman saints — and yet 

I should — 
They are so much holier than their 

harlot's son 
With whom they play'd their game 
against the king ! 
Aldwyth. The king is slain, the 

kingdom overthrown ! 
Edith. No matter ! 
Aldwyth. How no matter, Harold 
slain ? — 
I cannot find his body. O help me 
thou ! 

Edith, if I ever wrought against 

thee, 
Forgive me thou, and help me here ! 
Edith. No matter ! 

Aldwyth. Not help me, nor forgive 

me? 
Edith. So thou saidest. 

Aldwyth. I say it now, forgive me ! 
Edith. Cross me not ! 

1 am seeking one who wedded me in 

secret. 
Whisper! God's angels only know it. 

Ha! 
What art thou doing here among the 

dead ? 
They are stripping the dead bodies 

naked yonder, 
And thou art come to rob them of 
their rings ! 
Aldwyth. Edith, Edith, I have 
lost both crown 
And husband. 

Edith. So have I. 

Aldwyth. I tell thee, girl, 

I am seeking my dead Harold. 

Edith. And I mine ! 

The Holy Father strangled him with 

a hair 
Of Peter, and his brother Tostig helpt ; 
The wicked sister clapt her hands and 

laugh'd ; 
Then all the dead fell on him. 

Aldwyth. Edith, Edith — 

Edith. What was he like, this hus- 
band ? like to thee ? 



808 



HAROLD, 



Call not for help from me. I knew 

him not. 
He lies not here : not close beside the 

standard. 
Here fell the truest, manliest hearts 

of England. 
Go further hence and find him. 

Aldwyth. She is crazed ! 

Edith. That doth not matter either. 

Lower the light. 
He must be here. 

Enter two Canons, Osgod and 
Athelric, with torches. They 
turn over the dead bodies and 
examine them as they pass. 

Osgod. I think that this is Thurkill. 
Athelric. More likely Godric. 
Osgod. I am sure this body 

Is Alfwig, the king's uncle. 

Athelric. So it is ! 

No, no — brave Gurth, one gash from 
brow to knee ! 
Osgod. And here is Leofwin. 
Edith. And here is He 1 

Aldwyth. Harold ? Oh no — nay, if 
it were — my God, 
They have so maim'd and murder'd 

all his face 
There is no man can swear to him. 

Edith. But one woman! 

Look you, we never mean to part again. 
I have found him, I am happy. 
Was there not someone ask'd me for 

forgiveness ? 
I yield it freely, being the true wife 
Of this dead King, who never bore 
revenge. 

Enter Count William and William 
Malet. 

William. Who be these women 1 
And what body is this 1 

Edith. Harold, thy better! 

William. Ay, and what art thou ? 

Edith. His wife! 

Malet. Not true, my girl, here is the 
Queen ! [Pointing out Aldwyth. 

William (to Aldwyth). Wast thou 
his Queen 1 

Aldwyth. I was the Queen of Wales. 



William. Why then of England. 

Madam, fear us not. 
(To Malet.) Knowest thou this 

other 1 
Malet. When I visited England, 
Some held she was his wife in secret 

— some — 
Well — some believed she was his 
paramour. 
Edith. Norman, thou liest ! liars all 
of you, 
Your Saints and all ! / am his wife ! 

and she — 
Eor look, our marriage ring ! 
[She draws it off the finger of Harold. 
I lost it somehow — 
I lost it, playing with it when I was 

wild. 
That bred the doubt ! but I am wiser 

now . . . 
I am too wise . . . Will none among 

you all 
Bear me true witness — only for this 

once — 
That I have found it here again ? 

[She puts it on. 

And thou, 

Thy wife am I for ever antl evermore. 

[Falls on the body and dies. 

William. Death ! — and enough of 

death for this one day, 

The day of St. Calixtus, and the day, 

My day when I was born. 

Malet. And this dead king's 

Who, king or not, hath kinglike 

fought and fallen, 
His birthday, too. It seems but yes- 

ter-even 
I held it with him in his English halls, 
His day, with all his rooftree ringing 

" Harold," 
Before he fell into the snare of Guy ; 
When all men counted Harold would 

be king, 
And Harold was most happy. 

William. Thou art half English. 
Take them away ! 

Malet, I vow to build a church to God 
Here on the hill of battle ; let our 

high altar 
Stand where their standard fell . . o 
where these two lie. 



HAROLD. 



809 



Take them away, I do not love to see 

them. 
Pluck the dead woman off the dead 

man, Malet ! 
Malet. Faster than ivy. Must I 

hack her arms off ? 
How shall I part them ? 

William. Leave them. Let them be! 
Bury him and his paramour together. 
He that was false in oath to me, it 

seems 
Was false to his own wife. We will 

not give him 
A Christian burial : yet he was a war- 
rior. 
And wise, yea truthful, till that 

blighted vow 
Which God avenged to-day. 
Wrap them together in a purple cloak 
And lay them both upon the waste 

sea-shore 
At Hastings, there to guard the land 

for which 
He did forswear himself — a warrior 

— ay, 
And but that Holy Peter fought for us, 
And that the false Northumbrian held 

aloof* 
And save for 'that chance arrow which 

the Saints 
Sharpen'd and sent against him — 

who can tell ? — 



Three horses had I slain beneath me : 
twice 

I thought that all was lost. Since I 
knew battle, 

And that was from my boyhood, 
never yet — 

No, by the splendor of God — have I 
fought men 

Like Harold and his brethren, and his 
guard 

Of English. Every man about his king 

Fell where he stood. They loved him: 
and, pray God 

My Normans may but move as true 
with me 

To the door of death. Of one self- 
stock at first, 

Make them again one people — Nor- 
man, English ; 

And English, Norman ; we should 
have a hand 

To grasp the world with, and a foot 
to stamp it . . . 

Flat. Praise the Saints. It is over. 
No more blood ! 

I am king of England, so they thwart 
me not, 

And I will rule according to their laws. 

(To Aldwyth.) Madam, we will en- 
treat thee with all honor. 
Aldwyth. My punishment is more 
than I can bear. 



THE CUP; 

A TRAGEDY. 



Stnorix, an ex-Tetrarch. 
Sinnatus, a Tetrarch. 
Attendant. 
Boy. 



Antonius, a Roman General. 

PUBLIUS. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

GALATIANS. 
Maid. 



Phcebe. 

Camma, wife of Sinnatus, afterwards 
Priestess in the Temple of Artemis. 



ROMANS. 

I Nobleman. 
I Messenger. 



ACT I. 



SCENE I. — Distant View of a 
City of Galatia. Afternoon. 

As thecurtain rises, Priestesses are heard 
singing in the Temple. Boy discov- 
ered on a pathway among Rocks pick- 
ing grapes. A party of Roman 
Soldiers, guarding a prisonerin chains, 
come down the pathway and exeunt. 

Enter Synorix (looking round). Sing- 
ing ceases. 

Synorix. Pine, beech and plane, 

oak, walnut, apricot, 
Vine, cypress, poplar, myrtle, bower- 

ing in 
The city where she dwells. She past 

me here 
Three years ago when I was flying 

from 
My Tetrarchy to Rome. I almost 

touch'd her — 
A maiden slowly moving on to music 
Among her maidens to this Temple — 

Gods ! 
She is my fate — else wherefore has 

my fate 



! Brought me again to her own city ? — 

married 
Since — married Sinnatus, the Tetrarch 

here — 
But if he be conspirator, Rome will 

chain, 
Or slay him. I may trust to gain her 

then 
When I shall have my tetrarchy re- 
stored 
By Rome, our mistress, grateful that 

I show'd her 
The weakness and the dissonance of 

our clans, 
And how to crush them easily. 

Wretched race ! 
And once I wish'd to scourge them to 

the bones. 
But in this narrow breathing-time of 

life 
Is vengeance for its own sake worth 

the while, 
If once our ends are gain'd 1 and now 

this cup — 
I never felt such passion for a woman. 
[Brings out a cup and scroll from 

under his cloak. 
What have I written to her? 



THE CUP. 



811 



[Reading the scroll. 
" To the admired Camma, wife of 
Sinnatus, the Tetrarch, one who years 
ago, himself an adorer of our great 
goddess, Artemis, beheld you afar off 
worshipping in her Temple, and loved 
you for it, sends you this cup rescued 
from the burning of one of her shrines 
in a city thro' which he past with the 
Roman army : it is the cup we use in 
our marriages. Receive it from one 
who cannot at present write himself 
other than 

"A Galatian serving by force 
ix the Roman Legion." 
[Turns and looks up to boy. 
Boy, dost thou know the house of Sin- 
natus 1 
Boy. These grapes are for the house 
of Sinnatus — 
Close to the Temple. 
Synorix. Yonder ? 
Boy. Yes. 

Synorix (Aside). That I 

With all my range of women should 

yet shun 
To meet her face to face at once ! 
My boy. 

[Boy comes down rocks to him. 
Take thou this letter and this cup to 

Camma, 
The wife of Sinnatus. 

Boy. Going or gone to-day 

To hunt with Sinnatus. 

Synorix. That matters not. 

Take thou this cup and leave it at her 

doors. 

[Gives the cup and scroll to the boy. 

Boy. I will, my lord. 

[ Takes his basket of grapes and exit. 

Enter Antonius. 
Antonius {meeting tli'- Boy as he goes 
out). Why, whither runs 

the boy ? 
Is that the cup you rescued from the 
fire' 
Synorix. I send it to the wife of 
Sinnatus, 
One half besotted in religious rites. 
You come here with your soldiers to 
enforce 



The long-withholden tribute : you 

suspect 
This Sinnatus of playing patriotism, 
Which in your sense is treason. You 

have yet 
No proof against him : now this pious 

cup 
Is passport to their house, and open 

arms 
To him who gave it ; and once there 

I warrant 
I worm thro' all their windings. 

Antonius. If you prosper, 

Our Senate, wearied of their tetrarchies, 
Their quarrels with themselves, their 

spites at Rome, 
Is like enough to cancel them, and 

throne 
One king above them all, who shall 

be true 
To the Roman : and from what I heard 

in Rome, 
This tributary crown may fall to you. 
Synorix. The king, the crown ! their 
talk in Rome ? is it so ? 

[Antonius nods. 
Well — I shall serve Galatia taking it, 
And save her from herself, and be to 

Rome 
More faithful than a Roman. 

[Turns and sees Camma coming. 
Stand aside, 
Stand aside ; here she comes ! 

[ Watching Camma as she enters 
with her Maid. 
Camma (to Maid.) Where is he,girl? 
Maid. You know the waterfall 

That in the summer keeps the moun- 
tain side, 
But after rain o'erleaps a jutting rock 
And shoots three hundred feet. 

Camma. The stag is there 1 

Maid. Seen in the thicket at the 
bottom there 
But yester-even. 

Camma. Good then, we will climb 

The mountain opposite and watch the 

chase. 

[They descend the rocks and exeunt. 

Synorix (watching her. Aside.). The 

bust of Juno and the brows and 

eyes 



812 



THE CUP. 



Of Venus; face and form unmatchable ! 
Antonius. Why do you look at her 

so lingeringly 1 
Synorix. To see if years have 

changed her. 
Antonius (sarcastically). Love her, 

do you ? 
Synorix. I envied Sinnatus when 

he married her. 
Antonius. She knows it 1 Ha ! 
Synorix. She — no, nor ev'n my 

face. 
Antonius. Nor Sinnatus either ? 
Synorix. No, nor Sinnatus. 

Antonius. Hot-blooded ! 1 have 
heard them say in Rome, 
That your own people cast you from 

their bounds, 
From some unprincely violence to a 

woman, 
As Rome did Tarquin. 

Synorix. Well, if this were so, 

I here return like Tarquin — for a 
crown. 
Antonius. And may be foil'd like 
Tarquin, if you follow 
Not the dry light of Rome's straight- 
going policy, 
But the fool-fire of love or lust, which 

well 
May make you lose yourself, may 

even drown you 
In the good regard of Rome. 

Synorix. Tut — fear me not ; 

I ever had my victories among women. 
I am most true to Rome. 

Antonius {aside). I hate the man ! 
What filthy tools our Senate works 

with ! Still 

I must obey them. (Aloud.) Fare you 

well. [Going. 

Synorix. Farewell ! 

Antonius (stopping). A moment! If 

you track this Sinnatus 

In any treason, I give you here an 

order [Produces a paper. 

To seize upon him. Let me sign it. 

(Signs it.) There 
"Antonius leader of the Roman 
Legion." 
[Hands the paper to Synorix. Goes 
up pathway and exit. 



Synorix. Woman again ! — but I am 

wiser now. 
No rushing on the game — the net, — 

the net. 
[Shouts of " Sinnatus! Sinnatus ! " 

Then horn. 
(Looking off stage.) He comes, a rough, 

bluff, simple-looking fellow. 
If we may judge the kernel by the husk, 
Not one to keep a woman's fealty when 
Assailed by Craft and Love. I'll join 

with him : 
I may reap something from him — 

come upon her 
Again, perhaps, to-day — her. Who 

are with him % 
I see no face that knows me. Shall 

I risk it 1 
I am a Roman now, they dare not 

touch me. 
I will. 



Enter Sinnatus, Huntsmen and 
hounds. 
Fair Sir, a happy day to you ! 
You reck but little of the Roman here, 
While you can take your pastime in 
the woods. 
Sinnatus. Ay, ay, why not ? What 

would you with me, man ? 
Synorix. I am a life-long lover of 
the chase, 
And tho' a stranger fain would be 

allow'd 
To join the hunt. 

Sinnatus. Your name ? 
Synorix. Strato, my name. 
Sinnatus. No Roman name ? 
Synorix. A Greek, my lord; you 
know 
That we Galatians are both Greek 
and Gaul. 

[Shouts and horns in the distance. 
Sinnatus. Hillo, the stag! (To 
Synorix.) What, you are all 
unf urnish'd ? 
Give him a bow and arrows — follow 
— follow. 

[Exit, followed by Huntsmen. 
Synorix. Slowly but surely — till 
I see my way. 



THE CUP. 



813 



It is the one step in the dark beyond 
Our expectation, that amazes us. 

[Distant shouts and horns. 
Hillo ! 



Hillo 



[Exit Synorix. Shouts and horns. 



SCENE II. — A Room in the Te- 
trarch's House. 

Frescoed figures on the wall. Evening. 
Moonlight outside. A couch with 
cushions on it. A small table with 
jiagon of wine, cups, plate of grapes, 
etc., also the cup of Scene I. A chair 
with drapery on it. 

Camma enters and opens curtains of 
window. 

Camma. No Sinnatus yet — and 

there the rising moon. 
[ Takes up a cithern and sits on 

couch. Plays and sings. 
" Moon on the field and the foam, 

Moon on the waste and the wold, 
Moon bring him home, bring him 

home 
Safe from the dark and the cold, 
Home, sweet home, bring him home, 
Home with the flock to the fold — 

Safe from the wolf " 

(Listening.) Is he coming ? I thought 

I heard 
A footstep. No not yet. They say 

that Rome 
Sprang from a wolf. I fear my dear 

lord mixt 
With some conspiracy against the 

wolf. 
This mountain shepherd never dream'd 

of Rome. 
(Sings.) "Safe from the wolf to the 

fold" 

And that great break of precipice 

that runs 
Thro' all the wood, where twenty 

years ago 
Huntsman, and hound, and deer were 

all neck-broken ! 
Nay, here he comes. 



Enter Sinnatus followed by Synorix. 

Sinnatus (angrily). I tell thee, my 
good fellow, 
My arrow struck the stag. 

Synorix. But was it so ? 

Nay, you were further off : besides 

the wind 
Went with my arrow. 

Sinnatus. I am sure / struck him. 
Synorix. And I am just as sure, 
my lord, / struck him. 
(Aside.) And I may strike your 
game when you are gone. 
Camma. Come, come, we will not 
quarrel about the stag. 
I have had a weary day in wctching 

you. 
Yours must have been a wearier. Sit 

and eat, 
And take a hunter's vengeance on the 
meats. 
Sinnatus. No, no — we have eaten 

— we are heated. Wine ! 
Camma. Who is our guest ? 
Sinnatus. Strato he calls himself. 
[Camma offers wine to Synorix, 
while Sinnatus helps himself] 
Sinnatus. I pledge you, Strato. 

[Drinks. 
Synorix. And I you, my lord. 

[Drinks. 
Sinnatus (seeing the cup sent to Cam- 
ma). What's here? 
Camma. A strange gift sent to me 
to-day. 
A sacred cup saved from a blazing 

shrine 
Of our great Goddess, in some city 

where 
Antonius past. I had believed that 

Rome 
Made war upon the peoples not the 
Gods. 
Synorix. Most like the city rose 
against Antonius, 
Whereon he fired it, and the sacred 

shrine 
By chance was burnt along with it. 

Sinnatus. Had you then 

No message with the cup ? 



814 



THE CUP. 



Camma. Why, yes, see here. 

[Gives him the scroll. 
Sinnatus (reads). " To the admired 
Gamma, — beheld you afar off — 
loved you — sends you this cup — 
the cup we use in our marriages 
— cannot at present write himself 
other than 

" A Galatian serving by force 
in the Roman Legion." 

Serving by force ! Were there no 
boughs to hang on, 

Rivers to drown in 1 Serve by force 1 
No force 

Could make me serve by force. 

Synorix. How then, my lord ? 

The Roman is encampt without your 
city — 

The force of Rome a thousandfold 
our own. 

Must all Galatia hang or drown her- 
self 1 

And you a Prince and Tetrarch in this 

province 

Sinnatus. Province ! ' 

Synorix. Well, well, they call it so 

in Rome. 
Sinnatus (angrily). Province! 
Synorix. A noble anger ! but An- 
tonius 

To-morrow will demand your tribute 
— you, 

Can you make war ? Have you al- 
liances ? 

Bithynia, Pontus, Paphlagonia ? 

We have had our leagues of old with 
Eastern kings. 

There is my hand — if such a league 
there be. 

What will you do 7 

Sinnatus. Not set myself abroach 

And run my mind out to a random 
guest 

Who join'd me in the hunt. You saw 
my hounds 

True to the scent ; and we have two- 
legg'd dogs 

Among us who can smell a true oc- 
casion, 

And when to bark and how. 

Synorix. My good Lord Sinnatus, 



I once was at the hunting of a lion. 
Roused by the clamor of the chase he 

woke, 
Came to the front of the wood — his 

monarch mane 
Bristled about his quick ears — he 

stood there 
Staring upon the hunter. A score of 

dogs 
Gnaw'd at his ankles : at the last he 

felt 
The trouble of his feet, put forth one 

paw, 
Slew four, and knew it not, and so re- 

main'd 
Staring upon the hunter : and this 

Rome 
Will crush you if you wrestle with 

her ; then 
Save for some slight report in her 

own Senate 
Scarce know what she has done. 

(Aside.) Would I could move him, 
Provoke him any way ! (Aloud.) The 

Lady Camma, 
Wise I am sure as she is beautiful, 
Will close with me that to submit at 

once 
Is better than a wholly-hopeless war, 
Our gallant citizens murder'd all in 

vain, 
Son, husband, brother gash'd to death 

in vain, 
And the small state more cruelly 

trampled on 
Than had she never moved. 

Camma. Sir, I had once 

A boy who died a babe ; but were he 

living 
And grown to man and Sinnatus will'd 

it, I 
Would set him in the front rank of 

the fight 
With scarce a pang. (Rises.) Sir, if 

a state submit 
At once, she may be blotted out at once 
And swallow'd in the conqueror's 

chronicle. 
Whereas in wars of freedom and de- 
fence 
The glory and grief of battle won or 

lost 



THE CUP. 



815 



folders a race together — yea — tho' 

they fail, 
The names of those who fought and 

fell are like 
A bank'd-up fire that flashes out 

again 
From century to century, and at last 
May lead them on to victory — I hope 

so — 
Like phantoms of the Gods. 

Sinnatus. Well spoken, wife. 

Synorix (bowing). Madam, so well 1 

yield. 
Sinnatus. I should not wonder 

If Synorix, who has dwelt three years 

in Rome 
And wrought his worst against his 

native land, 
Returns with this Antonius. 

lorix. What is Synorix? 

Sinnatus. Galatian, and not know? 

This Synorix. 
Was Tetrarch here, and tyrant also — 

did 
Dishonor to our wives. 

Synorix. Perhaps you judge him 
With feeble charity : being as you tell 

me 
Tetrarch, there might be willing wives 

enough 
To feel dishonor, honor. 

Camma. Do not say so. 

1 know of no such wives in all Ga- 

latia. 
There may be courtesans for aught I 

know 
Whose life is one dishonor. 

Enter Attendant. 

Attendant (aside). My lord, the men ! 

Sinnatus (aside). Our anti-Roman 
faction ? 

Attendant (aside). Ay, my lord. 

Synorix (overhearing). (Aside.) I 
have enough — their anti-Ro- 
man faction. 

Sinnatus (aloud). Some friends of 

mine would speak with me 

without. 

You, Strato, make good cheer till I 

return. [Exit. 



Synorix. I have much to say, no 
time to say it in. 
First, lady, know myself am that 

Galatian 
Who sent the cup. 

Camma. I thank you from my heart. 

Synorix. Then that I serve with 

Rome to serve Galatia. 

Thatis my secret: keepit, oryousellme 

Totormentandtodeath. [Coming closer. 

For your ear only — 

I love you — for your love to the 

great Goddess. 
The Romans sent me here a spy upon 

you, 
To draw you and your husband to your 

doom. 
I'd sooner die than do it. 

[ Takes out paper given him by An- 
tonius. 

This paper sign'd 
Antonius — will you take it, read it 1 
there ! 
Camma (reads). "You are to seize 

on Sinnatus, — if — " 
Synorix (snatches paper). No more. 
What follows is for no wife's eyes. 

Camma, 
Rome has a glimpse of this con- 
spiracy ; 
Rome never yet hath spar'd con- 
spirator. 
Horrible ! flaying, scourging, crucify- 
ing— 
Camma. I am tender enough. Why 

do you practise on me ? 
Synorix. Why should I practise on 
you 1 How you wrong me ! 
I am sure of being every way malign'd. 
And if you should betray me to your 
husband — 
Camma. Will you betray him by 

this order ? 
Synorix. See, 

I tear it all to pieces, never dream'd 
Of acting on it. [Tears the paper. 

Camma. I owe you thanks for ever. 
Synorix. Hath Sinnatus never told 

you of this plot ? 
Camma. What plot ? 
Synorix. A child's sand-castle on 
the beach 



816 



THE CUP. 



For the next wave — all seen, — all 

calculated, 
All known by Rome. No chance for 

Sinnatus. 
Camma. Why, said you not as much 

to my brave Sinnatus 1 
Synorix. Brave — ay — too brave, 

too over-confident, 
Too like to ruin himself, and you, and 

me! 
Who else, with this black thunderbolt 

of Rome 
Above him, would have chased the 

stag to-day 
In the full face of all the Roman 

camp? 
A miracle that they let him home 

again, 
Not caught, maim'd, blinded him. 

[Camma shudders. 

(Aside.) I have made her tremble. 

(Aloud.) I know they mean to torture 

him to death. 
I dare not tell him how I came to 

know it ; 
1 durst not trust him with — my serv- 
ing Rome 
To serve Galatia : you heard him on 

the letter. 
Not say as much ? I all but said as 

much. 
I am sure I told him that his plot was 

folly. 
I say it to you — you are wiser — Rome 

knows all, 
But you know not the savagery of 
Rome. 
Camma. — have you power with 

Rome % use it for him ! 
Synorix. Alas ! I have no such power 

with Rome. All that 
Lies with Antonius. 

[As if struck by a sudden thought. 

Comes over to her. 

He will pass to-morrow 
In the gray dawn before the Temple 

doors. 
You have beauty, — O great beauty, 

— and Antonius, 
So gracious toward women, never yet 
Flung back a woman's prayer. Plead 

to him, 



I am sure you will prevail. 

Camma. Still — I should tell 

My husband. 

Synorix. Will he let you plead for 
him 
To a Roman ? 

Camma. I fear not. 
Synorix. Then do not tell him. 

Or tell him, if you will, when you re- 
turn, 
When you have charm'd our general 

into mercy, 
And all is safe again. O dearest lady, 
[Murmurs of " Synorix ! Synorix \" 
heard outside. 
Think, — torture, — death, — and come. 
Camma. I will, I will. 

And I will not betray you. 

Synorix (aside. As Sinnatus enters.). 
Stand apart. 

Enter Sinnatus and Attendant. 
Sinnatus. Thou art that Synorix! 
One whom thou hast wrong'd 
Without there, knew thee with An- 
tonius. 
They howl for thee, to rend thee head 
from limb. 
Synorix. I am much malign'd. 1 

thought to serve Galatia. 
Sinnatus. Serve thyself first, villain ! 
They shall not harm 
My guest within my house. There ! 
(points to door) there ! this door 
Opens upon the forest! Out, begone ! 
Henceforth I am thy mortal enemy. 
Synorix. However I thank thee 
(draws his sword) ; thou hast 
saved my life. [Exit. 

Sinnatus (to Attendant). Return and 
tell them Synorix is not here. 
[Exit Attendant. 
What did that villain Synorix say to 
you? 
Camma. Is he — that — Synorix ? 
Sinnatus. Wherefore should you 
doubt it ? 
One of the men there knew him. 

Camma. Only one, 

And he perhaps mistaken in the face. 
Sinnatus. Come, come, could he 
deny it ? What did he say 1 



THE CUP. 



817 



Camma. What should he say '? 
Sinnatus. What should he say, ray 
wife ! 
He should say this, that being Tetrarch 

once 
His own true people cast him from 

their doors 
Like a base coin. 

Cainma. Not kindly to them ? 
Sinnatus. Kindly? 

the most kindly Prince in all the 

world ' 
Would clap his honest citizens on the 

back. 
Bandy their own rude jests with them, 

be curious 
About the welfare of their babes, their 

wives, 
ay — their wives — their wives. 

What should he say ? 
He should sav nothing to my wife 

if I 
Were by to throttle him ! He steep'd 

himself 
In all the lust of Rome. How should 

you guess 
What manner of beast it is ? 

Camma. Yet he seem'd kindly, 

And said he loathed the cruelties that 

Rome 
Wrought on her vassals. 

Sinnatus. Did he, honest man ? 

Camma. And you, that seldom brook 

the stranger here, 

Have let him hunt the stag with you 

to-day. 

Sinnatus. I warrant you now, he 

said he struck the stag. 
Camma. Why no, he never touch'd 

upon the stag. 
Sinnatus. Why so I said, my arrow. 
Well, to sleep. 

[ Goes to close door. 
Camma. Nay, close not yet the door 
upon a night 
That looks half day. 
Sinnatus. True; and my friends 
may spy him 
And slay him as he runs. 

Camma. He is gone already. 

Oh look, — yon grove upon the moun- 
tain, — white 



In the sweet moon as with a lovelier 

snow ! 
But what a blotch of blackness under- 
neath ! 
Sinnatus, you remember — yea, you 

must, 
That there three years ago — the vast 

vine-bowers 
Ran to the summit of the trees, and 

dropt 
Their streamers earthward, which 3 

breeze of May 
Took ever and anon, and open'd out 
The purple zone of hill and heaven ; 

there 
You told your love ; and like the sway- 
ing vines — 
Yea, — with our eyes, — our hearts, 

our prophet hopes 
Let in the happy distance, and that all 
But cloudless heaven which we have 

found together 
In our three married years ! You 

kiss'd me there 
For the first time. Sinnatus, kiss me 

now. 
Sinnatus. First kiss. (Kisses her.) 

There then. You talk almost 

as if it 
Might be the last. 

Camma. Will you not eat a little ? 
Sinnatus. No, no, we found a goat- 
herd's hut and shared 
His fruits and milk. Liar ! You will 

believe 
Now that he never struck the stag — 

a brave one 
Which you shall see to-morrow. 

Camma. I rise to-morrow 

In the gray dawn, and take this holy 

cup 
To lodge it in the shrine of Artemis. 
Sinnatus. Good ! 
Camma. If I be not back in half 

an hour, 
Come after me. 

Sinnatus. What! is there 

danger ? 
Camma. Nay, 

None that I know : 'tis but a step 

from here 
To the Temple. 



818 



THE CUP. 



Sinnatus. All my brain is full of 

sleep. 
Wake me before you go, I'll after 

you — 
After me now ! [ Closes door and exit. 
Camma (drawing curtains). Your 

shadow. Synorix — 
His facewas not malignant,and he said 
That men malign'd him. Shall I go ? 

Shall I go ? 
Death, torture — 
" He never yet flung back a woman's 

prayer " — 
I go, but I will have my dagger with 

me. [Exit. 

SCENE III. — Same as Scene I. 
Dawn. 

Music and Singing in the Temple. 

Enter Synorix watchfully, after him 
Publius and Soldiers. 

Synorix. Publius ! 
Publius. Here ! 

Synorix. Do you remember what 
I told you ? 
Publius. When you cry " Rome, 
Rome," to seize 
On whomsoever may be talking with 

you, 
Or man, or woman, as traitors unto 
Rome. 
Synorix. Right. Back again. How 

many of you are there 1 
Publius. Some half a score. 

[Exeunt Soldiers and Publius. 
Synorix. I have my guard 

about me. 
I need not fear the crowd that hunted 

me 
Across the woods, last night. I hardly 

gain'd 
The camp at midnight. Will she 

come to me 
Now that she knows me Synorix ? 

Not if Sinnatus 
Has told her all the truth about me. 

Well, 
I cannot help the mould that I was 
cast in. 



I fling all that upon my fate, my 

star. 
I know that I am genial, I would be 
Happy, and make all others happy so 
They did not thwart me. Nay, she 

will not come. 
Yet if she be a true and loving wife 
She may, perchance, to save this 

husband. Ay ! 
See, see, my white bird stepping 

toward the snare. 
Why now I count it all but miracle, 
That this brave heart of mine should 

shake me so, 
As helplessly as some unbearded boy's 
When first he meets his maiden in a 

bower. 

Enter Camma (with cup). 
Synorix. The lark first takes the 
sunlight on his wing, 
But you, twin sister of the morning 

star, 
Forelead the sun. 

Camma. Where is Antonius 1 

Synorix. Not here as yet. You are 
too early for him. 

[She crosses towards Temple. 
Synorix. Nay, whither go you now ? 
Camma. To lodge this cup 

Within the holy shrine of Artemis, 
And so return. 

Synorix. To find Antonius here. 
[She goes into the Temple, he looks 
after her. 
The loveliest life that ever drew the 

light 
From heaven to brood upon her, and 

enrich 
Earth with her shadow ! I trust she 

will return. 
These Romans dare not violate the 

Temple. 
No, I must lure my game into the 

camp. 
A woman I could live and die for 

What ! 
Die for a woman, what new faith is 

this? 
I am not mad, not sick, not old enough 
To doat on one alone. Yes, mad for 
her, 



THE CUP. 



819 



Camma the stately, Camma the great- 
hearted, 

So mad, I fear some strange and evil 
chance 

Coming upon me, for by the Gods I 
seem 

Strange to myself. 

Re-enter Camma. 

Camma . "Where is Antonius ? 

Synorix. Where ? As I said before, 

you are still too early. 
Camma. Too early to be here alone 
with thee ; 
For whether men malign thy name, or 

no, 
It bears an evil savor among women. 
Where is Antonius ? (Loud.) 

Synorix. Madam, as you know, 

The camp is half a league without the 

city ; 
If you will walk with me we needs 

must meet 
Antonius coming, or at least shall 

find him 
There in the camp. 

Camma. No, not one step with 
thee. 
Where is Antonius 1 (Louder.) 

Synorix (advancing towards her). 
Then for your own sake, 
Lady, I say it with all gentleness, 
And for the sake of Sinnatus your 

husband, 
I must compel you. 

Camma (drawing her dagger). Stay! 

— too near is death. 
Synorix (disarming her). Is it not 
easy to disarm a woman 1 

Enter Sinnatus (seizes him from behind 
by the throat). 

Synorix (throttled and scarce audible ) . 
Rome ! Rome ! 

Hiatus. Adulterous dog ! 
Synorix (stabbing him with Camma' s 
dagger). What! will you have 
it? 
[Camma utters a cry and runs to 
Sinnatus. 



Sinnatus (falls backward). I have it 

in my heart — to the Temple — 

fly- 
For my sake — or they seize on thee 

Remember ! 
Away — farewell ! [Dies. 

Camma (runs up the steps into the 

Temple, looking back). Fare- 
well! 
Synorix (seeing her escape). The 

women of the Temple drag her 

in. 
Publius ! Fublius ! No, 
Antonius would not suffer me to 

break 
Into the sanctuary. She hath escaped. 
[Looking down at Sinnatus. 
"Adulterous dog! " that red-faced 

rage at me ! 
Then with one quick short stab — 

eternal peace. 
So end all passions. Then what use 

in passions ? 
To warm the cold bounds of our dying 

life 
And, lest we freeze in mortal apathy, 
Employ us, heat us, quicken us, help 

us, keep us 
From seeing all too near that urn, 

those ashes 
Which all must be. Well used, they 

serve us well. 
I heard a saying in Egypt, that am- 
bition 
Is like the sea wave, which the more 

you drink, 
The more you thirst — yea — drink 

too much, as men 
Have done on rafts of wreck — it 

drives you mad. 
I will be no such wreck, am no such 

gamester 
As, having won the stake, would dare 

the chance 
Of double, or losing all. The Roman 

Senate, 
For I have always play'd into their 

hands, 
Means me the crown. And Camma 

for my bride — 
The people love her — if I win her 

love, 



820 



THE CUP. 



They too will cleave to me, as one 

with her. 
There then I rest, Rome's tributary 

king. 

{Looking down on Sinnatus. 
Why did I strike him 1 — having 

proof enough 
Against the man, I surely should have 

left 
That stroke to Rome. He saved my 

life too. Did he ? 
It seem'd so. I have play'd the sud- 
den fool. 
And that sets her against me — for the 

moment. 
Camma — well, well, I never found 

the woman 
I could not force or wheedle to my 

will. 
She will be glad at last to wear my 

crown. 
And I will make Galatia prosperous 

too, 
And we will chirp among our vines, 

and smile 
At bygone things till that {pointing to 

Sinnatus) eternal peace. 
Rome ! Rome ! 



Enter Publius and Soldiers. 

Twice I cried Rome. Why came ye 
not before ? 
Publius. Why come we now 1 

Whom shall we seize upon ? 
Synorix (pointing to the body of 
Sinnatus). The body of that 
dead traitor Sinnatus. 
Bear him away. 

[Music and Singing in Temple. 



ACT II. 

SCENE. — Interior of the Temple 
of Artemis. 

Small gold gates on platform in front of 
the veil before the colossal statue of the 
Goddess, and in the centre of the 
Temple a tripod altar, on which is a 



lighted lamp. Lamps (lighted) sus- 
pended between each pillar. Tripods, 
vases, garlands of flowers, etc., about 
stage. Altar at back close to God- 
dess, with two cups. Solemn music. 
Priestesses decorating the Temple. 

Enter a Priestess. 

Priestess. Phoebe, that man from 

Synorix, who has been 
So oft to see the Priestess, waits once 

more 
Before the Temple. 

Phoebe. We will let her know. 

[Signs to one of the Priestesses, 
who goes out. 
Since Camma fled from Synorix to our 

Temple, 
And for her beauty, stateliness, and 

power, 
Was chosen Priestess here, have you 

not mark'd 
Her eyes were ever on the marble 

floor? 
To-day they are fixt and bright — 

they look straight out. 
Hath she made up her mind to marry 

him? 
Priestess. Tomarry him who stabb'd 

her Sinnatus. 
You will not easily make me credit 

that. 
Phoebe. Ask her. 

Enter Camma as Priestess (in front of 
the curtains). 

Priestess. You will not marry 
Synorix ? 

Camma. My girl, I am the bride of 
Death, and only 
Marry the dead. 

Priestess. Not Synorix then ? 

Camma. My girl, 

At times this oracle of great Artemis 
Has no more power than other oracles 
To speak directly. 

Phazbe. Will you speak to him, 

The messenger from Synorix who waits 
Before the Temple ? 

Camma. Why not ? Let him enter. 
[Comes forward on to step by tripod. 



THE CUP. 



821 



Enter a Messenger. 
Messenger (kneels). Greeting and 
health from Synorix ! More 
than once 
You have refused his hand. When 

last I saw you, 
You all but yielded. He entreats 

you now 
For your last answer. When he 

struck at Sinnatus — 
As I have many a time declared to 

you — 
He knew not at the moment who had 

fasten'd 
About his throat — he begs you to 

forget it 
As scarce his act : — a random stroke : 

all else 
Was love for you : he prays you to 
believe him. 
Camma. I pray him to believe — 

that I believe him. 
Messenger. Why that is well. You 

mean to marry him ? 
Camma. I mean to marry him — if 

that be well. 
Messenger. This very day the Ho- 
rn ans crown him king 
For all his faithful services to Rome. 
He wills you then this day to marry 

him, 
And so be throned together in the 

sight 
Of all the people, that the world may 

know 
You twain are reconciled, and no 

more feuds 
Disturb our peaceful vassalage to 
Rome. 
Camma. To-day? Too sudden. I 
will brood upon it. 
When do they crown him'? 
Messenger. Even now. 
Camma. And where ? 

Messenger. Here by j r our temple. 
Camma. Come once more to me 
Before the crowning, — I will answer 
you. 

[Exit Messenger. 
Phoebe. Great Artemis ! O Camma, 
can it be well, 



Or good, or wise, that you should 

clasp a hand 
Red with the sacred blood of Sinnatus ? 



Camma. Good! mine own 



dagger 



driven by Synorix found 

All good in the true heart of Sinnatus, 

And quench'd it there for ever. Wise ! 

Life yields to death and wisdom bows 
to Fate, 

Is wisest, doing so. Did not this man 

Speak well ? We cannot fight impe- 
rial Rome, 

But he and I are both Galatian-born, 

And tributary sovereigns, he and I, 

Might teach this Rome — from knowl- 
edge of our people — 

Where to lay on her tribute — heavily 
here 

And lightly there. Might I not live 
for that, 

And drown all poor self-passion in 
the sense 

Of public good ? 

Phoebe. I am sure you will not mar- 
ry him. 
Camma. Are you so sure ? I pray 
you wait and see. 
[Shouts (from the distance), 
" Synorix ! " " Synorix ! " 
Camma. Synorix, Synorix ! So they 
cried Sinnatus 

Not so long since — they sicken me. 
The One 

Who shifts his policy suffers some- 
thing, must 

Accuse himself, excuse himself; the 
Many 

Will feel no shame to give themselves 
the lie. 
Phoebe. Most like it was the Roman 

soldier shouted. 
Camma. Their shield-borne patriot 
of the morning star 

Hang'd at mid-day, their traitor of 
the dawn 

The clamor'd darling of their after- 
noon ! 

And that same head they would have 
play'd at ball with, 

And kick'd it featureless — they now 
would crown. 

[Flourish of trumpets. 



822 



THE CUP. 



Enter a Galatian Nobleman with crown 
on a cushion. 

Noble (kneels). Greeting and health 
from Synorix. He sends you 

This diadem of the first Galatian 
Queen, 

That you may feed your fancy on the 
glory of it, 

And join your life this day with his, 
and wear it 

Beside him on his throne. He waits 
your answer. 
Camma. Tell him there is one 
shadow among the shadows, 

One ghost of all the ghosts — as yet 
so new, 

So strange among them — such an 
alien there, 

So much of husband in it still — that if 

The shout of Synorix and Camma sit- 
ting 

Upon one throne, should reach it, it 
would rise. 

He ! . . . He, with that red star be- 
tween the ribs, 

And my knife there — and blast the 
king and me, 

And blanch the crowd with horror. I 
dare not, sir ! 

Throne him — and then the marriage 
— ay and tell him 

That I accept the diadem of Galatia — 
[.4// are amazed. 

Yea, that ye saw me crown myself 
withal. [Puts on the crown. 

I wait him his crown'd queen. 

Noble. So will I tell him. 

[Exit. 



Music. Two Priestesses go up the 
before the shrine, draw the curtains on 
either side (discovering the Goddess), 
then open the gates and remain on 
steps, one on either side, and kneel. 
A Priestess goes off and returns with 
a veil of marriage, then assists Phcebe 
to veil Camma. At the same time 
Priestesses enter and stand on either 
side of the Temple. Camma and all 
the Priestesses kneel, raise their 



hands to the Goddess, and bow 
down. 

[Shouts, " Synorix ! Synorix ! " 
All rise. 
Camma. Fling wide the doors, and 
let the new-made children 
Of our imperial mother see the show. 
[Sunlight pours through the doors. 
I have no heart to do it. ( To Phoebe. ) 
Look for me ! 

[Crouches. Phoebe looks out. 

[Shouts, " Synorix ! Synorix ! " 

Phoebe. He climbs the throne. 

Hot blood, ambition, pride 

So bloat and redden his face — 

would it were 
His third last apoplexy ! O bestial ! 
O how unlike our goodly Sinnatus. 
Camma (on the ground). You wrong 
him surely ; far as the face goes 
A goodlier-looking man than Sinnatus. 
Phoebe (aside). How dare she say 
it 1 I could hate her for it 
But that she is distracted. 

[A flourish of trumpets. 
Camma. Is he crown'd ? 

Phozbe. Ay, there they crown him. 
[ Crowd without shout, " Synorix ! 
Synorix!" 
Camma (rises). 

[A Priestess brings a box of spices 
to Camma who throws them on the 
altar fame. 
Rouse the dead altar-flame, fling in 

the spices, 
Nard, Cinnamon, amomum, benzoin. 
Let all the air reel into a mist of odor, 
As in the midmost heart of Paradise. 
Lay down the Lydian carpets for the 

king. 
The king should pace on purple to his 

bride," 
And music there to greet my lord the 
king. [Music. 

(To Phoebe.) Dost thou remember 

when I wedded Sinnatus 1 
Ay, thou wast there — whether from 

maiden fears 
Or reverential love for him I loved, 
Or some strange second-sight, the 
marriage-cup 



THE CUP. 



823 



Wherefrom we make libation to the 

Goddess 
So shook within my hand, that the red 

wine 
Kan down the marble and lookt like 
blood, like blood. 
Phoebe. I do remember your first- 
marriage fears. 
Camma. I have no fears at this my 
second marriage. 
See here — I stretch my hand out — 

hold it there. 
How steady it is ! 
Phoebe. Steady enough to stab him ! 
Camma. hush ! 6 peace ! This 
violence ill becomes 
The silence of our Temple. Gentleness, 
Low words best chime with this solem- 
nity. 

Enter a procession of Priestesses and 
Children bearing garlands and golden 
goblets, and strewing flowers. 

Enter Synorix (as King, icithgold tau- 
rel-ivreath crown and purple robes), 
followed bji Antonius, Publius, No- 
blemen, Guards, and the Populace. 
Camma. Hail, King ! 
Synorix. Hail, Queen ! 

The wheel of Fate has roll'd me to 

the top. 
I would that happiness were gold, 

that I 
Might cast my largess of it to the 

crowd ! 
I would that every man made feast 

to-day 
Beneath the shadow of our pines and 

planes ! 
For all my truer life begins to-day. 
The past is like a travell'd land now 

sunk 
Below the horizon — like a barren 

shore 
That grew salt weeds, but now all 

drown'd in love 
And glittering at full tide — the boun- 
teous bays 
And havens filling with a blissful sea. 
Nor speak I now too mightily, being 

King 



And happy ! happiest, Lady, in my 

power 
To make you happy. 

Camma. Yes, sir. 

Synorix. Our Antonius, 

Our faithful friend of Rome, tho' 

Rome may set 
A free foot where she will, yet of his 

courtesy 
Entreats he may be present at our 

marriage. 
Camma. Let him come — a legion 

with him, if he will. 
(To Antonius.) Welcome, my lord 

Antonius, to our Temple. 
( To Synorix. ) You on this side the 

altar. (To Antonius.) You on 

that. 
Call first upon the Goddess, Synorix. 
\_Allface the Goddess. Priestesses, 

Children, Populace and Guards 

kneel — the others remain standing. 
Synorix. O Thou, that dost inspire 

the germ with life, 
The child, a thread within the house 

of birth, 
And give him limbs, then air, and send 

him forth 
The glory of his father — Thou whose 

breath 
Is balmy wind to robe our hills with 

grass, 
And kindle all our vales with myrtle- 
blossom, 
Androllthe golden oceans of our grain, 
And sway the long grape-bunches of 

our vines, 
And fill all hearts with fatness and 

the lust 
Of plenty — make me happy in my 

marriage ! 
Chorus (chanting). Artemis, Arte^ 

mis, hear him, Ionian Artemis ! 
Camma. O Thou that slayest the 

babe within the womb 
Orinthebeingborn,orafter slayest him 
As boy or man, great Goddess, whose 

storm-voice 
Unsockets the strong oak, and rears 

his root 
Beyond his head, and strows our 

fruits, and lays 



824 



THE CUP. 



Our golden grain, and runs to sea and 

makes it 
Foam over all the fleeted wealth of 

kings 
And peoples, hear. 
Whose arrow is the plague — whose 

quick flash splits 
The mid-sea mast, and rifts the tower 

to the rock, 
And hurls the victor's column down 

with him 
That crowns it, hear. 
Who causest the safe earth to shud- 
der and gape, 
And gulf and flatten in her closing 

chasm 
Domed cities, hear. 
Whose lava-torrents blast and blacken 

a province 
To a cinder, hear. 
Whose winter-cataracts find a realm 

and leave it 
A waste of rock and ruin, hear. I 

call thee 
To make my marriage prosper to my 

wish! 
Chorus. Artemis, Artemis, hear her, 

Ephesian Artemis ! 
Camma. Artemis, Artemis, hear me, 

Galatian Artemis ! 
I call on our own Goddess in our own 

Temple. 
Chorus. Artemis, Artemis, hear her, 

Galatian Artemis ! 

[Thunder. All rise. 
Synorix (aside). Thunder! Ay, ay, 

the storm was drawing hither 
Across the hills when I was being 

crown'd. 
I wonder if I look as pale as she 1 
Camma. Art thou — still bent — 

on marrying ? 
Synorix. Surely — yet 

These are strange words to speak to 

Artemis. 
Camma. Words are not always what 

they seem, my King. 
I will be faithful to thee till thou die. 
Synorix. I thank thee, Camma, — I 

thank thee. 
Camma (turning to Antonius). An- 

tonius, 



Much graced are we that our Queen 

Rome in you 
Deigns to look in upon our barbarisms. 
[ Turns, goes up steps to altar before 
the Goddess. Takes a cup from 
off the altar. Holds it towards 
Antonius. Antonius goes up 
to the foot of the steps, opposite to 
Synorix. 
You see this cup, my lord. 

[Gives it to him. 
Antonius. Most curious ! 

The many-breasted mother Artemis 
Emboss'd upon it. 

Camma. It is old, I know not 
How many hundred years. Give it 

me again. 

It is the cup belonging our own Temple. 

[Puts it back on altar, and takes 

up the cup of Act I. Showing 

it to Antonius. 

Here is another sacred to the Goddess, 

The gift of Synorix ; and the Goddess, 

being 
For this most grateful, wills, thro' 

me her Priestess, 
Inhonor of hisgif t and of our marriage, 
That Synorix should drink from his 
own cup. 
Synorix. I thank thee, Camma, — I 

thank thee. 
Camma. For — my lord — 

It is our ancient Custom in Galatia 
That ere two souls be knit for life and 

death, 
They two should drink together from 

one cup, 
In symbol of their married unity, 
Making libation to the Goddess. 

Bring me 
The costly wines we use in marriages. 
[ They bring in a large jar of wine. 
Camma pours wine into cup. 
( To Synorix. ) See here, I fill it. ( To 
Antonius.) Will you drink, 
my lord ? 
Antonius. I? Why should I? I 

am not to be married. 
Camma. But that might bring a 

Roman blessing on us. 
Antonius (refusing cup) . Thy pardon, 
Priestess ! 



THE CUP. 



825 



Gamma. Thou art in the right. 
This blessing is for Synorix and for 

me. 
See first I make libation to the God- 
dess, [Makes libation. 
And now I drink. 

[Drinks and Jills the cup again. 
Thy turn, Galatian King. 
Drink and drink deep — our marriage 

will be fruitful. 
Drink and drink deep, and thou wilt 
make me happy. 
[Synorix goes up to her. She 
hands him the cup. He drinks. 
Synorix. There, Cainma ! I have 
almost drain'd the cup — 
A few drops left. 

Camma. Libation to the Goddess. 
[He throws the remaining drops on 
the altar and gives Camma the cup. 
Camma (placing the cup on the altar). 
Why then the Goddess hears. 
[Comes down and forward to 
tripod. Antonius follows. 

Antonius, 
Where wast thou on that morning when 

I came 
To plead to thee for Sinnatus's life, 
Beside this temple half a year ago ? 
Antonius. I never heard of this re- 
quest of thine. 
Synorix (coming forward hastily to 
foot of tripod steps). I sought 
him and I could not find him. 
Pray you, 
Go on with the marriage rites. 

Camma. Antonius 

" Camma ! " who spake ? 
Antonius. Not I. 

Phoebe. Nor any here. 

Cainma. I am all but sure that some 
one spake. Antonius, 
If you had found him plotting against 

Rome, 
Would you have tortured Sinnatus to 
death ? 
Antonius. No thought was mine of 
torture or of death, 
But had I found him plotting, I had 

counselled him 
To rest from vain resistance. Rome 
is fated 



To rule the world. Then, if he had 

not listen'd, 
I might have sent him prisoner to 
Rome. 
Synorix. Why do you palter with 
the ceremony ? 
Go with the marriage rites. 

Camma. They are finish'd. 

Synorix. How ! 

Camma. Thou hast drunk deep 

enough to make me happy. 

Dost thou not feel the love I bear to 

thee 
Glow thro' thy veins ? 

Synorix. The love I bear to thee 
Glows thro' my veins since first I 

look'd on thee. 
But wherefore slur the perfect cere- 
mony ? 
The sovereign of Galatia weds his 

Queen. 
Let all be done to the fullest in the 

sight 
Of all the Gods. (Starts.) This pain 

— what is it ? — again ? 

I had a touch of this last year — in — 

Rome. 
Yes, yes. ( To Antonius. ) Your arm 

— a moment — It will pass. 

I reel beneath the weight of utter 

joy — 

This all too happy day, crown — 
queen at once. [Staggers. 

O all ye Gods — Jupiter ! — Jupiter ! 
[Falls backward. 
Camma. Dost thou cry out upon 
the Gods of Rome ! 
Thou art Galatian-born ? Our Artemis 
Has vanquish'd their Diana. 

Synorix (on the ground). I am 
poison'd. 
She — close the Temple doors. Let 
her not fly. 
Camma (leaning on tripod). Have I 
not drunk of the same cup with 
thee? 
Synorix. Ay, by the Gods of Rome 
and all the world, 
She too — she too — the bride ! the 

Queen ! and I — 
Monstrous ! I that loved her. 
Camma. I loved him. 



826 



THE CUP. 



Synorix. murderous mad-woman! 
I pray you lift me 
And make me walk awhile. I have 

heard these poisons 
May be walk'd down. 

[Antonius and Publius raise 
him up. 

My feet are tons of lead, 
They will break in the earth — I am 

sinking — hold me — 
Let me alone. 

[ They leave him ; he sinks down 
on ground. 
Too late — thought myself wise — 
A woman's dupe. Antonius, tell the 

Senate 
I have been most true to Rome — 
would have been true 

To her — if — if 

[Falls as if dead. 

Camma (coming and leaning over him) 

So falls the throne of an 

hour. 

Synorix (half rising). Throne? is it 

thou 1 the Fates are throned, 

not we — 

Not guilty of ourselves — thy doom 

and mine — 
Thou — coming my way too — Camma 
— good-night. [Dies. 

Camma (upheld by weeping Priest- 
esses). Thy way? poor worm, 
crawl down thine own black 
hole 
To the lowest Hell. Antonius, is he 

there ? 
I meant thee to have followed — better 

thus. 
Nay, if my people must be thralls of 
Rome, 



He is gentle, tho' a Roman. 

[Sinks back into the arms of the 
Priestesses. 
Antonius. Thou art one 

With thine own people, and tho' a 

Roman I 
Forgive thee, Camma. 

Camma (raising herself). " Camma ! " 
why there again 
I am most sure that some one call'd. 

women, 

Ye will have Roman masters. Iamglad 
I shall not see it. Did not some old 

Greek 
Say death was the chief good ? He 

had my fate for it, 
Poison'd. (Sinks back again.) Have 

1 the crown on 1 I will go 

To meet him, crown'd ! crown'd victor 
of my will — 

On my last voyage — but the wind has 
fail'd — 

Growing dark too — but light enough 
to row. 

Row to the blessed Isles ! the blessed 
Isles ! — 

Sinnatus ! 

Why comes he not to meet me ? It is 
the crown 

Offends him — and my hands are too 
sleepy 

To lift it off. 

[Phoebe takes the crown off. 

Who touch'd me then ? I thank you. 
[Bises, with outspread arms. 

There — league on league of ever- 
shining shore 

Beneath anever-risingsun — Iseehim — 

" Camma, Camma ! " Sinnatus, Sin- 
natus ! [Dies. 



THE FALCOI. 



**;c 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

The Count Federigo degli Alberighi. 
Filippo, Count's foster-brother. 
The Lady Giovanna. 
Elisabetta, the Count's nurse. 



SCENE. — An Italian Cottage. 
Castle and Mountains seen 
through Window. 

Elisabetta discovered seated on stool 
in window darning. The Count ivith 
Falcon on his hand comes down through 
the door at back. A tvithered ivreath 
on the wall. 

Elisabetta. So, my lord, the Lady 
Giovanna, who hath been away so 
long, came back last night with her 
son to the castle. 

Count. Hear that, my bird ! Art 
thou not jealous of her ? 
My princess of the cloud, my plumed 

purveyor, 
My far-eyed queen of the winds — 

thou that canst soar 
Beyond the morning lark, and how- 
soever 
Thy quarry wind and wheel, swoop 

down upon him 
Eagle -like, lightning-like — strike, 

make his feathers 
Glance in mid heaven. 

[Crosses to chair. 

I would thou hadst a mate ! 

Thy breed will die with thee, and mine 

with ni 
I am as lone and loveless as thyself. 
[Sits in chair. 



Giovanna here ! Ay, ruffle thyself — 

be jealous! 
Thou should'st be jealous of her. 

Tho' I bred thee 
The full-train'd marvel of all falconry. 
And love thee and thou me, yet if 

Giovanna 
Be here again — No, no ! Buss me, 

my bird ! 
The stately widow has no heart for 

me. 
Thou art the last friend left me upon 

earth — 
No, no again to that. 

[Bises and turns. 

My good old nurse, 

I had forgotten thou wast sitting there. 

Elisabetta. Ay, and forgotten thy 

foster-brother too. 
Count. Bird-babble for my falcon ! 

Let it pass. 
What art thou doing there ? 

Elisabetta. Darning, your lordship. 
We cannot flaunt it in new feathers 

now : 
Nay, if we will buy diamond necklaces 
To please our lady., we must darn, my 

lord. 
This old thing here (points to necklace 

round her neck), they are but 

blue beads — my Piero, 
God rest his honest soul, he bought 

'em for me, 



828 



THE FALCON. 



Ay, but he knew I meant to marry 

him. 
How couldst thou do it, my son % 
How couldst thou do it 1 
Count. She saw it at a dance, upon 
a neck 
Less lovely than her own, and long'd 
for it. 
Elisabetta. She told thee as much ? 
Count. No, no — a friend of hers. 
Elisabetta. Shame on her that she 
took it at thy hands, 
She rich enough to have bought it for 
herself ! 
Count. She would have robb'd me 

then of a great pleasure. 
Elisabetta. But hath she yet re- 

turn'd thy love 1 
Count. Not yet ! 

Elisabetta. She should return thy 

necklace then. 
Count. Ay, if 

She knew the giver ; but I bound the 

seller 
To silence, and I left it privily 
At Florence, in her palace. 

Elisabetta. And sold thine own 

To buy it for her. She not know ? 
She knows 

There's none such other 

Count. Madman anywhere. 

Speak freely, tho' to call a madman 

mad 
Will hardly help to make him sane 
again. 

Enter Filippo. 

Filippo. Ah, the women, the wo- 
men ! Ah, Monna Giovanna, you 
here again ! you that have the face of 
an angel and the heart of a — that's 
too positive ! You that have a score 
of lovers and have not a heart for any 
of them — that's positive-negative : 
you that have not the head of a toad, 
and not a heart like the jewel in it — 
that's too negative ; you that have a 
cheek like a peach and a heart like 
the stone in it — that's positive again 
— that's better ! 

Elisabetta. Sh — sh — Filippo ! 



Filippo {turns half round). Here has 
our master been a-glorifying and 
a-velveting and a-silking himself, and 
a-peacocking and a-spreading to catch 
her eye for a dozen year, till he hasn't 
an eye left in his own tail to flourish 
among the peahens, and all along o' 
you, Monna Giovanna, all along o' 
you! 

Elisabetta. Sh — sh — Filippo ! Can't 
you hear that you are saying behind 
his back what you see you are saying 
afore his face '? 

Count. Let him — he never spares 
me to my face ! 

Filippo. No, my lord, I never spare 
your lordship to your lordship's face, 
nor behind your lordship's back, nor 
to right, nor to left, nor to round 
about and back to your lordship's 
face again, for I'm honest, your lord- 
ship. 

Count. Come, come, Filippo, what 
is there in the larder ? 

[Elisabetta crosses to fireplace and 
puts on wood. 

Filippo. Shelves and hooks, shelves 
and hooks, and when I see the shelves 
I am like to hang myself on the 
hooks. 

Count. No bread ? 

Filippo. Half a breakfast for a rat ! 

Count. Milk ? 

Filippo. Three laps for a cat ! 

Count. Cheese ? 

Filippo. A supper for twelve mites. 

Count. Eggs ? 

Filippo. One, but addled. 

Count. No bird ? 

Filippo. Half a tit and a hern's bill. 

Count. Let be thy jokes and thy 
jerks, man ! Anything or nothing 1 

Filippo. Well, my lord, if all-but- 
nothing be anything, and one plate of 
dried prunes be all-but-nothing, then 
there is anything in your lordship's 
larder at your lordship's service, if 
your lordship care to call for it. 

Count. Good mother, happy was 
the prodigal son, 
For he return'd to the rich father ; T 
But add my poverty to thine. And all 



THE FALCON, 



829 



Thro' following of rny fancy. Pray 

thee make 
Thy slender meal out of those scraps 

and shreds 
Filippo spoke of. As for him and me, 
There sprouts a salad in the garden 

still. 
(To the Falcon.) Why didst thou 

miss thy quarry yester-even 7 
To-day, my beauty, thou must dash 

us down 
Our dinner from the skies. Away, 

Filippo ! 

[Exit followed by Filippo. 
Elisabetta. I knew it would come 
to this. She has beggared him. I 
always knew it would come to this! 
( Goes up to table as if to resume darn- 
ing, and looks out of window.) Why, 
as I live, there is Monna Giovanna 
coming down the hill from the castle. 
Stops and stares at our cottage. Ay, 
ay! stare at it: it's all you have left 
us. Shame upon you ! She beauti- 
ful ! sleek as a miller's mouse ! Meal 
enough, meat enough, well fed ; but 
beautiful — bah! Nay, see, why she 
turns down the path through our little 
vineyard, and I sneezed three times 
this morning. Coming to visit my 
lord, for the first time in her life too ! 
Why, bless the saints ! I'll be bound 
to confess her love to him at last. I 
forgive her, I forgive her ! I knew 
it would come to this — I always 
knew it must come to this ! (Going 
up to door during latter part of 
speech and opens it.) Come in, Ma- 
donna, come in. (Retires to front of 
table and curtseys as the Lady Gio- 
vanna enters, then moves chair towards 
the hearth.) Nay, let me place this 
-hair for your ladyship. 

[Lady Giovanna moves slowly 
stage, then crosses to chair, 

looking about her, bows as she 

sees the Madonna over fireplace, 

then sits in chair. 
Lady Giovanna. Can I speak with 

the Count 1 
Elisabetta. Ay, my lady, but won't 
you speak with the old woman first, 



and tell her all about it and make her 
happy ? for I've been on my knees 
every day for these half-dozen years 
in hope that the saints would send us 
this blessed morning; and he always 
took you so kindly, he always took 
the world so kindly. When he was a 
little one, and I put the bitters on my 
breast to wean him, he made a wry 
mouth at it, but he took it so kindly, 
and your ladyship has given him bit- 
ters enough in this world, and he 
never made a wry mouth at you, he 
always took }^ou so kindly — which is 
more than I did, my lady, more than 
I did — and he so handsome — and 
bless your sweet face, you look as 
beautiful this morning as the very 
Madonna her own self — and better 
late than never — but come when they 
will — then or now — it's all for the 
best, come when they will — they are 
made by the blessed saints — these 
marriages. [Raises her hands. 

Lady Giovanna. Marriages'? I shall 

never marry again ! 
Elisabetta (rises and turns). Shame 

on her then ! 
Lady Giovanna. Where is the 

Count I 
Elisabetta. Just gone 

To fly his falcon. 

Lady Giovanna. Call him back and 

say 
I come to breakfast with him. 

Elisabetta. Holy mother! 

To breakfast ! Oh sweet saints ! one 

plate of prunes ! 
Well, Madam, I will give your mes- 
sage to him. [Exit. 
Lady Giovanna. His falcon, and I 

come to ask for his falcon, 
The pleasure of his eyes — boast of 

his hand — 
Pride of his heart — the solace of his 

hours — 
His one companion here — nay, I have 

heard 
That, thro' his late magnificence of 

living 
And this last costly gift to mine own 

self, r Shows diamond necklace. 



830 



THE FALCON. 



He hath become so beggar'd, that his 

falcon 
Ev'n wins his dinner for him in the 

field. 
That must be talk, not truth, but 

truth or talk, 
How can I ask for his falcon % 

[Rises and moves as she speaks. 
O my sick boy ! 
My daily fading Florio, it is thou 
Hath set me this hard task, for when 

I say 
What can I do — what can I get for 

thee? 
He answers, " Get the Count to give 

me his falcon, 
And that will make me well." Yet if 

I ask, 
He loves me, and he knows I know he 

loves me ! 
Will he not pray me to return his 

love — 
To marry him 1 — (pause) — I can 

never marry him. 
His grandsire struck my grandsire in 

a brawl 
At Florence, and my grandsire stabb'd 

him there. 
The feud between our houses is the 

bar 
I cannot cross ; I dare not brave my 

brother, 
Break with my kin. My brother 

hates him, scorns 
Thenoblest-naturedmanalive,andI — 
Who have that reverence for him that 

I scarce 
Dare beg him to receive his diamonds 

back — 
How can I, dare I, ask him for his 

falcon 1 

[Puts diamonds in her casket. 

Re-enter Count and Filippo. Count 
turns to Filippo. 

Count. Do what I said ; I cannot 

do it myself. 
Filippo. Why then, my lord, we are 

pauper'd out and out. 
Count. Do what I said ! 

[Advances and bows low. 



Welcome to this poor cottage, my 
dear lady. 
Lady Giovanna. And welcome turns 

a cottage to a palace. 
Count. 'Tis long since we have met ! 
Lady Giovanna. To make amends 
I come this day to break my fast with 
you. 
Count. I am much honor'd — yes — 
[Turns to Filippo. 
Do what I told thee. Must I do it 
myself ? 
Filippo. I will, I will. (Sighs.) 
Poor fellow ! [Exit. 

Count. Lady, you bring your light 
into my cottage 
Who never deign'd to shine into my 

palace. 
My palace wanting you was but a 

cottage ; 
My cottage, while you grace it, is a 
palace. 
Lady Giovanna. In cottage or in 
palace, being still 
Beyond your fortunes, you are still 

the king 
Of courtesy and liberality. 

Count. I trust I still maintain my 
courtesy ; 
My liberality perforce is dead. 
Thro' lack of means of giving. 

Ladij Giovanna. Yet I come 

To ask a gift. 

[Moves toward him a little. 
Count. It will be hard, I fear, 

To find one shock upon the field when 

all 
The harvest has been carried. 

Lady Giovanna. But my boy — 
(Aside.) No, no ! not yet — I cannot ! 
Count. Ay, how is he, 

That bright inheritor of your eyes — 
your boy 1 
Lady Giovanna. Alas, my Lord 
Federigo, he hath fallen 
Into a sickness, and it troubles me. 
Count. Sick ! is it so ? why, when 
he came last year 
To see me hawking, he was well 

enough : 
And then I taught him all our hawk 
ing-phrases. 



THE FALCON. 



831 



Lad y Giovanna. Oh yes, and once 

you let him fly your falcon. 
Count. How ctiarm'd he was ! what 

wonder ? — A gallant boy, 
A noble bird, each perfect of the 
breed. 
Lady Giovanna (sinks in chair). 

What do you rate her at ? 
Count. My bird ? a hundred 

Gold pieces once were offer'd by the 

Duke. 

1 had no heart to part with her for 

money. 

Lady Giovanna. No, not for money. 

[Count turns away and sighs. 

Wherefore do you sigh ? 

Count. I have lost a friend of 

late. 
Lady Giovanna. I could sigh with 

you 
For fear of losing more than friend, 

a son ; 
And if he leave me — all the rest of 

life — 
That wither 'd wreath were of more 
worth to me. 

[Looking at icreath on wall. 
Count. That wither'd wreath is of 
more worth to me 
Than all the blossom, all the leaf of 

this 
New-wakening year. 

[Goes and takes down wreath. 
Lady Giovanna. And yet I never 
saw 
The land so rich in blossom as this 
year. 
Count (holding wreath toward her). 
Was not the year when this 
was gather'd richer ? 
Lady Giovanna. How long ago was 

that 1 
Count. Alas, ten summers ! 

A lady that was beautiful as day 
Sat by me at a rustic festival 
With other beauties on a mountain 

meadow, 
And she was the most beautiful of 

all; 
Then but fifteen, and still as beautiful. 
The mountain flowers grew thickly 
round about. 



I made a wreath with some of these ; 

I ask'd 
A ribbon from her hair to bind it 

with ; 
I whisper'd, Let me crown you Queen 

of Beauty, 
And softly placed the chaplet on her 

head. 
A color, which has color'd all my life, 
Flush'd in her face ; then I was call'd 

away; 
And presently all rose, and so de- 
parted. 
Ah ! she had thrown my chaplet on 

the grass, 
And there I found it. 

[Lets his hands fall, holding wreath 
despondingly. 
Lady Giovanna (after pause). How 

long since do you say ? 
Count. That was the very year be- 
fore you married. 
Lady Giovanna. When I was mar- 
ried you were at the wars. 
Count. Had she not thrown my 
chaplet on the grass, 
It may be I had never seen the wars. 
[Replaces wreath whence he had 
taken it. 
Lady Giovanna. Ah, but, my lord, 
there ran a rumor then 
That you were kill'd in battle. I can 

tell you 
True tears that year were shed for 
you in Florence. 
Count. It might have been as well 
for me. Unhappily 
I was but wounded by the enemy 

there 
And then imprison'd. 

Lady Giovanna. Happily, however, 
I see you quite recovered of your 
wound. 
Count. No, no, not quite, Madonna, 
not yet, not yet 

Re-enter Filippo. 

Filippo. My lord, a word with you. 

Count. Fray, pardon me ! 

[Lady Giovanna crosses, and passes 

behind chair and takes down 



832 



THE FALCON. 



wreath ; then goes to chair by 
table. 
Count (to Filippo). What is it, 

Filippo 1 
Filippo. Spoons, your lordship. 
Count. Spoons ! 

Filippo. Yes, my lord, for wasn't 
my lady born with a golden spoon in 
her ladyship's mouth, and we haven't 
never so much as a silver one for the 
golden lips of her ladyship. 

Count. Have we not half a score 

of silver spoons ? 
Filippo. Half o' one, my lord ! 
Count. How half of one ? 
Filippo. I trod upon him even now, 
my lord, in my hurry, and broke him. 
Count. And the other nine 1 
Filippo. Sold ! but shall I not mount 
with your lordship's leave to her lady- 
ship's castle, in your lordship's and 
her ladyship's name, and confer with 
her ladyship's seneschal, and so des- 
cend again with some of her ladyship's 
own appurtenances 1 

Count. Why — no, man. Only see 
your cloth be clean. 

[Exit Filippo. 
Lady Giovanna. Ay, ay, this faded 
ribbon was the mode 
In Florence ten years back. What's 

here ? a scroll 
Pinn'd to the wreath. 

My lord, you have said so much 
Of this poor wreath that I was bold 

enough 
To take it down, if but to guess what 

flowers 
Had made it ; and I find a written 

scroll 
That seems to run in rhymings. 
Might I read ? 
Count. Ay, if you will. 
Lady Giovanna. It should be if you 
can. 
(Reads.) "Dead mountain." Nay, 

for who could trace a hand 
So wild and staggering ? 

Count. This was penn'd, Madonna, 
Close to the grating on a winter 

morn 
In the perpetual twilight of a prison, 



When he that made it, having his 
right hand 

Lamed in the battle, wrote it with his 
left. 
Lady Giovanna. Oh heavens ! the 
very letters seem to shake 

With cold, with pain perhaps, poor 
prisoner ! Well, 

Tell me the words — or better — for 
I see 

There goes a musical score along with 
them, 

Repeat them to their music. 

Count. You can touch 

No chord in me that would not answer 
you 

In music. 

Lady Giovanna. That is musically 
said. 
[Count takes guitar. Lady Gio- 
vanna sits listening with wreath 
in her hand, and quietly removes 
*- scroll and places it on table at the 
end of song. 
Count (sings, playing guitar). " Dead 
mountain flowers, dead moun- 
tain-meadow flowers, 

Dearer than when you made your 
mountain gay, 

Sweeter than any violet of to-day, 

Richer than all the wide world-wealth 
of May, 

To me, tho' all your bloom has died 
away, 

You bloom again, dead mountain- 
meadow flowers." 

Enter Elisabetta with cloth. 

Elisabetta. A word with you, my 

lord! 
Count (singing). " O mountain 

flowers ! " 
Elisabetta. A word, my lord ! 

(Louder.) 
Count (sings). " Dead flowers ! " 
Elisabetta. A word, my lord! 

(Louder.) 

Count. I pray you pardon me again ! 

[Lady Giovanna, looking at wreath. 

Count (to Elisabetta). What is it? 

Elisabetta. My lord, we have but 



THE FALCON. 



833 



one piece of earthenware to serve the 

salad in to my lady, and that cracked ! 

Count. Why then, that fiower'd 

bowl my ancestor 

Fetch'd from the farthest east — we 

never use it 
For fear of breakage — but this day 

has brought 
A great occasion. You can take it, 
nurse ! 
EHsabetta. I did take it, my lord, 
but what with my lady's coming that 
had so flurried me, and what with the 
fear of breaking it, I did break it, my 
lord : it is broken ! 

Count. My one thing left of value 
in the world ! 
No matter! see your cloth be white 
as snow ! 
EHsabetta (pointing thro' ivindoiv). 
White ? I warrant thee, my son, as 
the snow yonder on the very tip-top 
o' the mountain. 

Count. And yet to speak white 

truth, my good old mother, 

I have seen it like the snow on the 

moraine. 

Elisabetta. How can your lordship 

say so ? There, my lord ! 

[Lays cloth. 
O my dear son, be not unkind to me. 
And one word more. 

[Going — returns. 
Count (touching guitar). Good! let it 

be but one. 
Elisabetta. Hath she return'd thy 

love? 
Count. Not yet! 

Elisabetta. And will she ? 

Count (looking at Lady Giovanna). 

I scarce believe it ! 
Elisabetta. Shame upon her then ! 
[Exit. 
Co\m' (sings.) " Dead mountain 
flowers " — 

Ah well, my nurse has broken 
The thread of my dead flowers, as she 

has broken 
My china bowl. My memory Is as 
dead. [ Goes and replaces guitar. 
Strange that the words at home with 
me so long 



Should fly like bosom friends when 

needed most. 
S° bj- your leave if you would hear 

the rest, 
The writing. 

Ijady Giovanna (holding wreath 

toward him). There! my lord, 

you are a poet, 
And can you not imagine that the 

wreath, 
Set, as you say, so lightly on her head, 
Fell with her motion as she rose, and 

she, 
A girl, a child, then but fifteen, how- 
ever 
Flutter'd or flatter'd by your notice of 

her, 
Was yet too bashful to return for it 1 
Count. Was it so indeed ? was it so 1 

was it so ? 
[Leans forward to take wreath, and 

touches Lady Giovanna's hand, 

which she ivithdraivs hastily ; he 

places wreath on corner of chair. 
Lady Giovanna (with dignity). I did 

not say, my lord, that it was so ; 
I said you might imagine it was so. 

Enter Filippo with bowl of salad, which 
he places on table. 

Filippo. Here's a fine salad for my 
lady, for tho' we have been a soldier, 
and ridden by his lordship's side, and 
seen the red of the battle-field, yet are 
we now drill-sergeant to his lordship's 
lettuces, and profess to be great in 
green things and in garden-stuff. 

Lady Giovanna. I thank you, good 
Filippo. [Exit Filippo. 

Enter Elisabetta with bird on a dish 
which she places on table. 

Elisabetta (close to table). Here's a 
fine fowl for my lady ; I had scant 
time to do him in. I hope he be not 
underdone, for we be undone in the 
doing of him. 

Lady Giovanna. I thank you, my 
good nurse. 

Filippo (re-entering with plate oj 
prunes). And here are fine fruits for 



834 



THE FALCON. 



my lady — prunes, my lady, from the 
tree that my lord himself planted here 
in the blossom of his boyhood — and 
so I, Filippo, being, with your lady- 
ship's pardon, and as your ladyship 
knows, his lordship's own foster- 
brother, would commend them to 
your ladyship's most peculiar ap- 
preciation. {Puts plate on table. 
Elisabetta. Filippo ! 
Lady Giovanna (Count leads her to 

table). Will you not eat with 

me, my lord 1 
Count. I cannot, 

Not a morsel, not one morsel. I have 

broken 
My fast already. I will pledge you. 

Wine! 
Filippo, wine ! 

{Sits near table; Filippo brings 

flask, Jills the Count's goblet, 

then Lady Giovanna's ; Elisa- 
betta stands at the back of Lady 

Giovanna's chair. 
Count. It is but thin and cold, 

Not like the vintage blowing round 

your castle. 
We lie too deep down in the shadow 

here. 
Your ladyship lives higher in the sun. 
[The i i pledge each other and drink. 
Lady Giovanna. If I might send 

you down a flask or two 
Of that same vintage 1 There is iron 

in it. 
It has been much commended as a 

medicine. 
I give it my sick son, and if you 

be 
Not quite recover'd of your wound, the 

wine 
Might help you. None has ever told 

me yet 
The story of your battle and your 

wound. 
Filippo (coming forward). I can tell 

you, my lady, I can tell you. 
Elisabetta. Filippo! will you take 
the word out of your master's own 
mouth % 

Filippo. Was it there to take ? Put 

it there, my lord. 



Count. Giovanna, my dear lady, in 
this same battle 
We had been beaten — they were ten 

to one. 
The trumpets of the fight had echo'd 

down, 
I and Filippo here had done our best* 
And, having passed unwounded from 

the field, 
Were seated sadly at a fountain side, 
Our horses grazing by us, when 

troop, 
Laden with booty and with a flag of 
ours 

Ta'en in the fight 

Filippo. Ay, but we fought for it 
back, 

And kill'd 

Elisabetta. Filippo ! 

Count. A troop of horse 

Filippo. Five hundred ! 

Count. Say fifty ! 

Filippo. And we kill'd 'em by the 

score ! 
Elisabetta. Filippo ! 
Filippo. Well, well, well ! I bite my 

tongue. 
Count . We may have left their fifty 
less by five. 
However, staying not to count how 

many, 
But anger'd at their flaunting of our 

flag, 
We mounted, and we dashed into the 

heart of 'em. 
I wore the lady's chaplet round my 

neck; 
It served me for a blessed rosary. 
I am sure that more than one brave 

fellow owed 
His death to the charm in it. 

Elisabetta. Hear that, my lady ! 

Count. I cannot tell how long we 
strove before 
Our horses fell beneath us ; down we 

went 
Crush'd, hack'd at, trampled under- 
foot. The night, 
As some cold-manner'd friend may 

strangely do us 
The truest service, had a touch of 
frost 



THE FALCON. 



835 



That help'd to check the flowing of 

the blood. 
My last sight ere I swoon 'd was one 

sweet face 
Crown'd with the wreath. That seem'd 

to come and go. 
They left us there for dead ! 

E/isabetta. Hear that, my lady ! 

Filippo. Ay, and I left two fingers 
there for dead. See, my lady! 

[Showing his hand. 
Lady Giovanna. I see, Filippo ! 
Filippo. And I have small hope of 
the gentleman gout in my great toe. 
Lady Giovanna. And why, Filippo 1 
[Smiling absently. 
Filippo. I left him there for dead 

too! 
Flisabetta. She smiles at him — how 
hard the woman is ! 
My lady, if your ladyship were not 
Too proud to look upon the garland, 

you 
Would find it stain'd — 

Count (rising). Silence, Elisabetta ! 
Flisabetta. Stain'd with the blood of 
the best heart that ever 
Beat for one woman. 

[Points to wreath on chair. 
Lady Giovanna (rising slowly). I can 

eat no more ! 
Count. You have but trifled with 
our homely salad, 
But dallied with a single lettuce-leaf; 
Not eaten anything. 

Lady Giovanna. Nay, nay, I cannot. 
You know, my lord, I told you I was 

troubled. 
My one child Florio lying still so 

sick, 
I bound myself, and by a solemn 

vow, 
That I would touch no flesh till he 

were well 
Here, or else well in Heaven, where all 
is well. 
[Elisabetta clears table of bird and 
salad: Filippo snatches up the 
plate of prunes and holds them to 
Lady Giovanna. 
Filippo. But the prunes, my lady, 
from the tree that his lordship 



Lady Giovanna. Not now, Filippo. 
My lord Federigo, 
Can I not speak with you once more 
alone 1 
Count. You hear, Filippo 1 My 

good fellow, go ! 
Filippo. But the prunes that your 

lordship 

Elisabetta. Filippo ! 

Count. Ay, prune our company of 

thine own and go ! 
Flisabetta. Filippo ! 
Filippo (turning). Well, well ! the 
women ! [Exit. 

Count. And thou too leave us, ray 

dear nurse, alone. 
Elisabetta (folding up cloth and going). 
And me too ! Ay, the dear nurse will 
leave you alone ; but, for all that, she 
that has eaten the yolk is scarce like 
to swallow the shell. 

[Turns and curtseys stiffly to Lady 
Giovanna, then exit. Lady 
Giovanna takes out diamond 
necklace from casket. 
Lady Giovanna. I have anger'd your 
good nurse; these old-world ser- 
vants 
Are all but flesh and blood with those 

they serve. 
My lord, I have a present to return 

you, 
And afterwards a boon to crave of 
you. 
Count. No, my most honor'd and 
long-worshipt lady, 
Poor Federigo degli Alberighi 
Takes nothing in return from you 

except 
Return of his affection — can deny 
Nothing to you that you require of 
him. 
Lady Giovanna. Then I require you 
to take back your diamonds — 
[Offering necklace. 
I doubt not they are yours. No other 

heart 
Of such magnificence in courtesy 
Beats — out of heaven. They seem'd 

too rich a prize . 
To trust with any messenger. I came 



836 



THE FALCON. 



In person to return them. 

[Count draws back. 
If the phrase 
"Beturn'' displease you, we will say 
— exchange them 

For your — for your 

Count (takes a step toward her and then 
back) For mine — and what of 
mine q 
Lady Giovanna. Well, shall we say 
this wreath and your sweet 
rhymes 1 
Count. But have you ever worn my 

diamonds 1 
Lady Giovanna. No ! 

For that would seem accepting of your 

love. 
I cannot brave my brother — but be 

sure 
That I shall never marry again, my 
lord! 
Count. Sure ? 
Lady Giovanna. Yes ! 
Count. Is this your brother's order 1 
Lady Giovanna. No ! 

For he would marry me to the richest 

man 
In Florence; but I think you know 

the saying — 
" Better a man without riches, than 
riches without a man." 
Count. A noble saying — and acted 
on would yield 
A nobler breed of men and women. 

Lady, 
1 find you a shrewd bargainer. The 

wreath 
That once you wore outvalues twenty- 
fold 
The diamonds that you never deign'd 

to wear. 
But lay them there for a moment ! 
[Points to table. Lady Giovanna 
places necklace on table. 

And be you 
Gracious enough to let me know the 

boon 
By granting which, if aught be mine 

to grant, 
I should be made more happy than I 

hoped 
Ever to be again. 



Lady Giovanna. Then keep your 

wreath, 
But you will find me a shrewd bar- 
gainer still. 
I cannot keep your diamonds, for the 

gift 
I ask for, to my mind and at this 

present 
Outvalues all the jewels upon earth. 
Count. It should be love that thus 

outvalues all. 
You speak like love, and yet you love 

me not. 
I have nothing in this world but love 

for you. 
Lady Giovanna. Love 1 it is love, 

love for my dying boy, 
Moves me to ask it of you. 

Count. What 1 my time * 

Is it my time ? Well, I can give my 

time 
To him that is a part of you, your son. 
Shall I return to the castle with you 1 

Shall I 
Sit by him, read to him, tell him my 

tales, 
Sing him my songs 1 You know that 

I can touch 
The ghittern to some purpose. 

Lady Giovanna. No, not that ! 

I thank you heartilyforthat — andyou, 
I doubt not from your nobleness of 

nature, 
Will pardon me for asking what I ask. 
Count. Giovanna, dear Giovanna, I 

that once 
The wildest of the random youth of 

Florence 
Before I saw you — all my nobleness 
Of nature, as you deign to call it, 

draws 
From you, and from my constancy to 

you. 
No more, but speak. 

Lady Giovanna. I will. You know 

sick people, 
More specially sick children, have 

strange fancies, 
Strange longings ; and to thwart them 

in their mood 
May work them grievous harm at 

times, may even 



THE FALCON. 



837 



Hasten their end. 1 would you had a 
son! 

It might be easier then for you to 
make 

Allowance for a mother — her — who 
comes 

To rob you of your one delight on 
earth. 

How often has my sick boy yearn'd 
for this ! 

I have put him off as often ; but to- 
day 

I dared not — so much weaker, so 
much worse 

For last day's journey. I was weep- 
ing for him ; 

He gave me his hand : " I should be 
well again 

If thegood Countwould give me " 

Count. Give me. 
Lady Giovanna. His falcon. 
Count (starts back). My falcon ! 
Lady Giovanna. Yes, your falcon, 

Federigo ! 
Count. Alas, I cannot ! 
Lady Giovanna. Cannot ? Even so ! 

I fear'd as much. this unhappy 
world ! 

How shall I break it to him 1 how 
shall I tell him ? 

The boy may die : more blessed were 
the rags 

Of some pale beggar-woman seeking 
alms 

For her sick son, if he were like to 
live, 

Than all my childless wealth, if mine 
must die. 

I was to blame — the love you said 
you bore me — 

My lord, we thank you for your 
entertainment, 

[With a stately curtsey. 

And so return — Heaven help him ! — 
to our son. [Turns. 

Count (rushes forward). Stay, stay, 
I am most unlucky, most un- 
happy. 

You never had look'd in on me be- 
fore, 

And when you came and dipt your 
sovereign head 



Thro' these low doors, you ask'd to 

eat with me. 
I had but emptiness to set before 

you, 
No not a draught of milk, no not an 

egg, 
Nothing but my brave bird, my noble 

falcon, 
My comrade of the house, and of the 

field. 
She had to die for it — she died for 

you. 
Perhaps I thought with those of old, 

the nobler 
The victim was, the more acceptable 
Might be the sacrifice. I fear you 

scarce 
Will thank me for your entertain- 
ment now. 
Lady Giovanna (returning). I bear 

with him no longer. 
Count. No, Madonna ! 
And he will have to bear with it as he 

may. 
Lady Giovanna. I break with him 

for ever! 
Count. Yes, Giovanna, 

But he will keep his love to you for 

ever! 
Lady Giovanna. You? you 1 ? not 

you ! My brother ! my hard 

brother ! 

Federigo, Federigo, I love you ! 
Spite of ten thousand brothers, Fed- 
erigo. [Falls at Ids feet. 

Count (impetuously). Why then the 
dying of my noble bird 
Hath served me better than her living 
— then 

[ Takes diamonds from table. 
These diamonds are both yours and 

mine — have won 
Their value again — beyond all mar- 
kets — there 

1 lay them for the first time round 

your neck. 

[Lays necklace round her neck. 
And then this chaplet — No more 

feuds, but peace, 
Peace and conciliation ! I will make 
Your brother love me. See, I tear 

away 



838 



THE FALCON. 



The leaves were darken'd by the bat- 
tle — 
[Pulls leaves off and throws them 
down. 

— crown you 
Again with the same crown my Queen 
of Beauty. 

[Places wreath on tier head. 
Rise — I could almost think that the 

dead garland 
Will break once more into living blos- 
som. 



Nay, nay, I pray you rise. 

[Raises her with both hands. 
We two together 
Will help to heal your son — your 

son and mine — 
We shall do it — we shall do it. 

[Embraces her. 
The purpose of my being is accom- 
plished, 
And I am happy ! 

Lady Giovanna. And I too, Fed 
erigo. 



BECKET, 



To the Lord Chancellor, 
THE RIGHT HONORABLE EARL OF SELBORNE. 

My Dear Selbobne, — To you, the honored Chancellor of our own day, I dedicate this 
dramatic memorial of your ?reat predecessor ; — which, altho' not intended in its present 
form to meet the exigencies of our modern theatre, has nevertheless — for so you have 
assured me — won your approbation. Ever yours, 

TENNYSON. 



DRAMATIS PERSONA?. 

Henrt II. (son of the Earl of Anjou). 

Thomas Becket, Chancellor of England, afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury. 
Gilbert Foliot, Bishop of London. 
Roger, Archbishop of York. 
Bishop of Hereford. 
Hilary, Bishop of Chichester. 
Jocelyn, Bishop of Salisbury. 
John of Salisbury ) ,. . , . D , M 
Herbert of Bosham \ fnends °S Becket 

Walter Map, reputed author of" Golias," Latin poems against the priesthood. 
King Louis of France. 
Geoffrey, son of Rosamund and Henri/. 
Grim, a monk of Cambridge. 
Sir Reginald Fitzurse ) 

Sir Richard de Brito ! the four knights of the King's household, enemies of 
Sir William de Tracy j Becket. 

Sir Hugh de Morville j 
De Broc of Saltwood Castle. 
Lord Leicester. 
Philip de Eleemosyna. 
Two Knight Templars. 
ioiix of Oxford [called the Swearer). 
Kleanor of Aquitaine, Queen of England (divorced from Louis of France). 

mraro de Clifford. 
Margery. 

Knights, Monks, Beggars, etc. 



840 



BECKET. 



PROLOGUE. 

A Castle in Normandy. Interior 
of the Hall. Roofs of a City 
seen thro' Windows. 

Henry and Becket at chess. 

Henry. So then our good Arch- 
bishop Theobald 
Lies dying. 

Becket. I am grieved to know as 

much. 
Henry. But we must have a 
mightier man than he 
For his successor. 

Becket. Have you thought of one ? 
Henry. A cleric lately poison'd his 
own mother, 
And being brought before the courts 

of the Church, 
They but degraded him. I hope they 

whipt him. 
I would have hang'd him. 

Becket. It is your move. 

Henry. Well — there. [Moves. 

The Church in the pell-mell of 

Stephen's time 
Hath climb'd the throne and almost 

clutch'd the crown ; 
But by the royal customs of our realm 
The Church should hold her baronies 

of me, 
Like other lords amenable to law. 
I'll have them written down and made 
the law. 
Becket. My liege, I move my bishop. 
Henry. And if I live, 

No man without my leave shall ex- 
communicate 
My tenants or my household. 

Becket. Look to your king. 

Henry. No man without my leave 
shall cross the seas 
To set the Pope against me — I pray 
your pardon. 
Becket. Well — will you move ? 
Henry. There. [Moves. 

Becket. Check — you 

move so wildly. 
Henry. There then ! [Moves. 



Becket. Why — there then, for you 
see my bishop 
Hath brought your king to a stand- 
still. You are beaten. 
Henry (kicks over the board). Why, 
there then — down go bishop 
and king together. 
I loathe being beaten ; had I fixt my 

fancy 
Upon the game I should have beaten 

thee, 
But that was vagabond. 

Becket. Where, my liege 1 

With Phryne, 

Or Lais, or thy Rosamund, or another ? 

Henry. My Rosamund is no Lais, 

Thomas Becket ; 

And yet she plagues me too — no 

fault in her — 
But. that I fear the Queen would have 
her life. 
Becket. Put her away, put her away, 
my liege ! 
Put her away into a nunnery ! 
Safe enough there from her to whom 

thou art bound 
By Holy Church. And wherefore 

should she seek 
The life of Rosamund de Clifford more 
Than that of other paramours of 
thine ? 
Henry. How dost thou know I am 

not wedded to her ? 
Becket. How should I know ? 
Henry. That is my secret, Thomas. 
Becket. State secrets should be pa- 
tent to the statesman 
Who serves and loves his king, and 

whom the king 
Loves not as statesman, but true lover 
and friend. 
Henry. Come, come, thou art but 
deacon, not yet bishop, 
No, nor archbishop, nor my confessor 

yet. 
I would to God thou wert, fori should 

find 
An easy father confessor in thee. 
Becket. St. Denis, that thou shouldst 
not. I should beat 
Thy kingship as my bishop hath 
beaten it. 



BECKET. 



841 



Henry. Hell take thy bishop then, 
and my kingship too ! 
Come, come, I love thee and I know 

thee, I know thee, 
A doter on white pheasant-flesh at 

feasts, 
A sauce-deviser for thy days of fish, 
A dish-designer, and most amorous 
Of good old red sound liberal Gascon 

wine: 
Will not thy body rebel, man, if thou 
flatter it 1 
Becket. That palate is insane which 
cannot tell 
A good dish from a bad, new wine 
from old. 
Henry. Well, who loves wine loves 

woman. 
Becket. So I do. 

Men are God's trees, and women are 

God's flowers ; 
And when the Gascon wine mounts to 

my head, 
The trees are all the statelier, and the 

flowers 
Are all the fairer. 

Henry. And thy thoughts, 

thy fancies 1 
Becket. Good dogs, my liege, well 
train 'd, and easily call'd 
Off from the game. 

Henry. Save for some once or twice, 
When they ran down the game and 
worried it. 
Becket. No, my liege, no! — not 

once — in God's name, no ! 
Henry. Nay, then, I take thee at 
thy word — believe thee 
The veriest Galahad of old Arthur's 

hall. 
And so this Kosamund, my true heart- 
wife, 
Xot Eleanor — she whom I love indeed 
As a woman should be loved — Why 

dost thou smile 
So dolorously 1 

Becket. My good liege, if a man 
Wastes himself among women, how 

should he love 
A woman, as a woman should be loved ? 
Henry. How shouldst thou know 
that never hast loved one ' 



Come, I would give her to thy care in 

England 
When I am out in Normandy or Anjou. 
Becket. My lord, I am your subject, 

not your 

Henry. Pander. 

God's eyes ! I know all that — not my 

purveyor 
Of pleasures, but to save a life — her 

life; 
Ay, and the soul of Eleanor from hell- 
fire. 
I have built a secret bower in Eng- 
land, Thomas, 
A nest in a bush. 

Becket. And where, my liege ? 
Henry (whispers). Thine ear. 

Becket. That's lone enough. 
Henry (laying paper on table). This 
chart here mark'd " Her Bower," 
Take, keep it, friend. See, first, a 

circling wood, 
A hundred pathways running every- 
way, 
And then a brook, a bridge ; and after 

that 
This labyrinthine brickwork maze in 

maze, 
And then another wood, and in the 

midst 
A garden and my Kosamund. Look, 

this line — 
The rest you see is color'd green — 

but this 
Draws thro' the chart to her. 

Becket. This blood-red line ? 

Henry. Ay ! blood, perchance, ex- 
cept thou see to her. 
Becket. And where is she % There 

in her English nest 1 
Henry. Would God she were — no, 
here within the city. 
We take her from her secret bower in 

Anjou 
And pass her to her secret bower in 

England. 
She is ignorant of all but that I love 
her. 
Becket. My liege, I pray thee let me 
hence : a widow 
And orphan child, whom one of thy 
wild barons 



842 



BECKET. 



Henry. Ay, ay, but swear to see her 

in England. 
BecTcet. Well, well, I swear, but not 

to please myself. 
Henry. Whatever come between us 1 
Becket. What should come 

Between us, Henry % 

Henry. Nay — I know not, Thomas. 
Becket. What need then % Well — 

whatever come between us. 

[ Going. 
Henry. A moment ! thou didst help 

me to my throne 
In Theobald's time, and after by thy 

wisdom 
Hast kept it firm from shaking ; but 

now I, 
For my realm's sake, myself must be 

the wizard 
To raise that tempest which will set it 

trembling 
Only to base it deeper. I, true son 
Of Holy Church — no croucher to the 

Gregories 
That tread the kings their children 

underheel — 
Must curb her ; and the Holy Father, 

while 
This Barbarossa butts him from his 

chair, 
Will need my help — be facile to my 

hands. 
Now is my time. Yet — lest there 

should be flashes 
And fulminations from the side of 

Rome, 
An interdict on England — I will have 
My young son Henry crown'd the 

King of England, 
That so the Papal bolt may pass by 

England, 
As seeming his, not mine, and fall 

abroad. 
I'll have it done — and now. 

Becket. Surely too young 

Even for this shadow of a crown ; and 

tho' 
I love him heartily, I can spy already 
A strain of hard and headstrong in 

him. Say, 
The Queen should play his kingship 

against thine ! 



Henry. I will not think so, Thomas. 
Who shall crown him "? 
Canterbury is dying. 

Becket. The next Canterbury. 

Henry. And who shall he be, my 

friend Thomas ? Who 1 
Becket. Name him ; the Holy Father 

will confirm him. 
Henry (lays his hand on Becket's 

shoulder). Here! 
Becket. Mock me not. I am not 
even a monk. 
Thy jest — no more. Why — look — 

is this a sleeve 
For an archbishop 1 

Henry. But the arm within 

Is Becket's, who hath beaten down my 
foes. 
Becket. A soldier's, not a spiritual 

arm. 
Henry. I lack a spiritual soldier, 
Thomas — 
A man of this world and the next to 
boot. 
Becket. There's Gilbert Foliot. 
Henry. He ! too thin, too thin. 

Thou art the man to fill out the 

Church robe ; 
Your Foliot fasts and fawns too much 
for me. 
Becket. Roger of York. 
Henry. Roger is Roger of York. 
King, Church, and State to him but 

foils wherein 
To set that precious jewel, Roger of 

York. 
No. 

Becket. Henry of Winchester 1 
Henry. Him who crown'd Stephen — 
King Stephen's brother ! No ; too 

royal for me. 
And I'll have no more Anselms. 

Becket. Sire, the business 

Of thy whole kingdom waits me : let 
me go. 
Henry. Answer me first. 
Becket. Then for thy barren jest 
Take thou mine answer in bare com- 
monplace — 
Nolo episcopari. 

Henry. Ay, but Nolo 

Archiepiscopari, my good friend, 



BECKET. 



843 



Is quite another matter. 

Becket. A more lawful one. 

Make me archbishop ! Why, my 

liege, I know 
Some three or four poor priests a 

thousand times 
Fitter for this grand function. Me 

archbishop ! 
God's favor and king's favor might so 

clash 
That thou and I That were a 

jest indeed ! 
Henri/. Thou angerest me, man : I 

do not jest. 

Enter Eleanor and Sir Reginald 

FlTZURSE. 

Eleanor (singing). Over! the sweet 
summer closes, 

The reign of the roses is done 

Henry (to Becket, who is going). 

Thou shalt not go. I have not ended 

with thee. 

Eleanor (seeing chart on table). This 

chart with the red line! her bower! 

whose bower ? 

Henry. The chart is not mine, but 
Becket's : take it, Thomas. 

Eleanor. Becket ! — ay — and 
these chessmen on the floor — the 
king's crown broken ! Becket hath 
beaten thee again — and thou hast 
kicked down the board. I know thee 
of old. 

Henry. True enough, my mind was 
set upon other matters. 

Eleanor. ■ What matters 1 State 
matters ? love matters ? 

Henry. My love for thee, and thine 
for me. 

Eleanor. Over ! the sweet summer 
closes, 
The reign of the roses is done ; 
Over and gone with the roses, 

And over and gone with the sun. 
Here ; but our sun in Aquitaine 
lasts longer. I would I were in Aqui- 
taine again — your north chills me. 
Over! the sweet summer closes, 

And never a flower at the close ; 
Over and gone with the roses, 
And winter again and the snows. 



That was not the way I ended it first 
— but unsymmetrically, preposter- 
ously, illogically, out of passion, with- 
out art — like a song of the people. 
Will you have it ? The last Farthian 
shaft of a forlorn Cupid at the King's 
left breast, and all left-handedness 
and under-handedness. 

And never a flower at the close, 

Over and gone with the roses, 
Not over and gone with the rose. 
True, one rose will outblossom the 
rest, one rose in a bower. I speak 
after my fancies, for I am a Trouba- 
dour, you know, and won the violet at 
Toulouse ; but my voice is harsh 
here, not in tune, a nightingale out of 
season ; for marriage, rose or no rose, 
has killed the golden violet. 

Becket. Madam, you do ill to scorn 
wedded love. 

Eleanor. So I do. Louis of France 
loved me, and I dreamed that I loved 
Louis of France : and I loved Henry of 
England, and Henry of England 
dreamed that he loved me ; but the 
marriage-garland withers even with 
the putting on, the bright link rusts 
with the breath of the first after- 
marriage kiss, the harvest moon is 
the ripening of the harvest, and the 
honeymoon is the gall of love ; he 
dies of his honeymoon. I could pity 
this poor world myself that is no bet- 
ter ordered. 

Henry. Dead is he, my Queen 1 
What, altogether 1 Let me swear 
nay to that by this cross on thy neck. 
God's eyes ! what a lovely cross ! what 
jewels ! 

Eleanor. Doth it please you 1 Take 
it and wear it on that hard heart of 
yours — there. [Gives it to him. 

Henry (puts it on). On this left 
breast before so hard a heart, 
To hide the scar left by thy Farthian 
dart. 

Eleanor. Has my simple song set 
you jingling 1 Nay, if I took and 
translated that hard heart into our 
Provencal facilities, I could so play 
about it with the rhyme 



844 



BECKET. 



Henry. That the heart were lost in 
the rhyme and the matter in the metre. 
May we not pray you, Madam, to spare 
us the hardness of your facility 1 

Eleanor. The wells of Castaly are 
not wasted upon the desert. We did 
but jest. 

Henry. There's no jest on the 
brows of Herbert there. What is it, 
Herbert ? 

Enter Herbert of Bosham. 
Herbert. My liege, the good Arch- 
bishop is no more. 

Henry. Peace to his soul ! 
Herbert. I left him with peace on 
his face — that sweet other-world 
smile, which will be reflected in the 
spiritual body among the angels. But 
he longed much to see your Grace and 
the Chancellor ere he past, and his 
last words were a commendation of 
Thomas Becket to your Grace as his 
successor in the archbishoprick. 

Henry. Ha, Becket ! thou remem- 
berest our talk ! 

Becket. My heart is full of tears 
— I have no answer. 

Henry. Well, well, old men must 
die, or the world would grow mouldy, 
would only breed the past again. 
Come to me to-morrow. Thou hast 
but to hold out thy hand. Meanwhile 
the revenues are mine. A-hawking, 
a-hawking ! If I sit, I grow fat. 

[Leaps over the table, and exit. 
Becket. He did prefer me to the 
chancellorship, 
Believing I should ever aid the 

Church — 
But have I done it 1 He commends 

me now 
From out his grave to this arch- 
bishoprick. 
Herbert. A dead man's dying wish 

should be of weight. 
Becket. His should. Come with 
me. Let me learn at full 
The manner of his death, and all he 
said. 

[Exeunt Herbert and Becket. 
Eleanor. Fitzurse, that chart with 



the red line — thou sawest it — her 
bower. 

Fitzurse. Rosamund's ? 

Eleanor. Ay — there lies the secret 
of her whereabouts, and the King 
gave it to his Chancellor. 

Fitzurse. To this son of a London 
merchant — how your Grace must 
hate him. 

Eleanor. Hate him '* as brave a 
soldier as Henry and a goodlier man : 
but thou — clost thou love this Chan- 
cellor, that thou hast sworn a volun- 
tary allegiance to him % 

Fitzurse. Not for my love toward 
him, but because he had the love of 
the King. How should a baron love 
a beggar on horseback, with the ret- 
inue of three kings behind him, out- 
royalling royalty % Besides, he holp 
the King to break down our castles, 
for the which I hate him. 

Eleanor. For the which I honor 
him. Statesman not Churchman he. 
A great and sound policy that : I 
could embrace him for it : you could 
not see the King for the kinglings. 

Fitzurse. Ay, but he speaks to a 
noble as tho' he were a churl, and to 
a churl as if he were a noble. 

Eleanor. Pride of the plebeian ! 

Fitzurse. And this plebeian like to 
be Archbishop ! 

Eleanor. True, and I have an in- 
herited loathingof these black sheepof 
the Papacy. Archbishop 1 ? I can see fur- 
ther into a man than our hot-headed 
Henry, and if there ever come feud 
between Church and Crown, and I do 
not then charm this secret out of our 
loyal Thomas, I am not Eleanor. 

Fitzurse. Last night I followed a 
woman in the city here. Her face 
was veiled, but the back methought 
was Rosamund — his paramour, thy 
rival. I can feel for thee. 

Eleanor. Thou feel for me ! — par- 
amour — rival! King Louis had no 
paramours, and I loved him none the 
more. Henry had many, and I loved 
him none the less — now neither more 
nor less — not at all; the cup's empty, 



BECKET. 



845 



I would she were but his paramour, 
for men tire of their fancies ; but I 
fear this one fancy hath taken root, 
and home blossom too, and she, whom 
the King loves indeed, is a power in 
the State. Rival! — ay, and when 
the King passes, there may come a 
crash and embroilment as in Stephen's 
time; and her children — canst thou 
not — that secret matter which would 
heat the King- against thee (whispers 
him and he starts). Nay, that is safe 
with me as with thyself- but canst 
thou not — thou art drowned in debt 
— thou shalt have our love, our 
silence, and our gold — canst thou 
i ^t — if thou light upon her — free 
me from her ? 

Fitzurse. Well, Madam, I have 
loved her in my time. 

www. No, my bear, thou hast 
not. My Courts of Love would have 
held thee guiltlessof love — the fine at- 
tractions and repulses, the delicacies, 
the subtleties. 

Fitzurse. Madam, 1 loved accord- 
ing to the main purpose and intent of 
nature. 

Eleanor. I warrant thee ! thou 
wouldst hug thy Cupid till his ribs 
cracked — enough of this. Follow 
me this Rosamund day and night, 
whithersoever she goes ; track her, if 
thou canst, even into the King's lodg- 
ing, that I may (clenches her Jist) — 
may at least have my cry against 
him and her, — and thou in my way 
shouldst be jealous of the King, for 
thou in thy way didst once, what shall 
I call it, affect her thine own self. 

Fitzurse. Ay, but the young colt 
winced and whinnied and flung up her 
heels; and then the King came honey- 
ing about her, and this Becket, her 
father's friend, like enough staved 
us from her. 

.tor. Us ! 

Fitzurse. Yea, by the Blessed Vir- 
gin ! There wen- more than I buzzing 
round the blossom — 1 )e Tracy — even 
that flint De Brito. 

Eleanor. Carry her .,11' among you; 



run in upon her and devour her, one 
and all of you ; make her as hateful 
to herself and to the King, as she is 
to me. 

Fitzurse. I and all would be glad 
to wreak our spite on the rosefaced 
minion of the King, and bring her to 
the level of the dust, so that the 
King 

Eleanor. Let her eat it like the 
serpent, and be driven out of her 
paradise. 

ACT I. 

SCENE 1. — Becket's House in Lon- 
don. Chamber barely furnished. 
Becket unrobing. Herbert of 
bosham and servant. 

Servant. Shall I not help your lord- 
ship to your rest ? 
Becket. Friend, am I so much bet- 
ter than thyself 
That thou shouldst help me 1 Thou 

art wearied out 
With this day's work, get thee to thine 

own bed. 
Leave me with Herbert, friend. 

[Exit Servant. 
Help me off, Herbert, with this — and 
this. 
Herbert. Was not the people's 
blessing as we past 
Heart-comfort and a balsam to thy 
blood ? 
Becket. The people know their 
Church a tower of strength, 
A bulwark against Throne and Bar- 
onage. 
Too heavy for me, this ; off with it, 
Herbert ! 
Herbert. Is it so much heavier than 

thy Chancellor's robe ? 
Becket. No ; but the Chancellor's 
and the Archbishop's 
Together more than mortal man can 
bear. 
Herbert. Not heavier than thine 

armor at Thoulouse 1 
Becket. O Herbert, Herbert, in my 
chancellorship 



846 



BECKET. 



I more than once have gone against 
the Church. 
Herbert. To please the King 1 
Becket. Ay, and the King of kings, 

Or justice ; for it seem'd to me but just 

The Church should pay her scutage 
like the lords. 

But hast thou heard this cry of Gil- 
bert Foliot 

That I am not the man to be your 
Primate, 

For Henry could not work a miracle — 

Make an Archbishop of a soldier 1 
Herbert. Ay, 

For Gilbert Foliot held himself the 
man. 
Becket. Am I the man ? My 
mother, ere she bore me, 

Dream'd that twelve stars fell glitter- 
ing out of heaven 

Into her bosom. 

Herbert. Ay, the fire, the light, 

The spirit of the twelve Apostles 
enter'd 

Into thy making. 

Becket. And when I was a child, 

The Virgin, in a vision of my sleep, 

Gave me the golden keys of Paradise. 
Dream, 

Or prophecy, that 1 

Herbert. Well dream and prophecy 

both. 
Becket. And when I was of Theo- 
bald's household, once — 

The good old man would sometimes 
have his jest — 

He took his mitre off, and set it on me, 

And said, " My young Archbishop — 
thou wouldst make 

A stately Archbishop ! " Jest or 
prophecy there % 
Herbert. Both, Thomas, both. 
Becket. Am I the man? That rang 

Within my head last night, and when 
I slept 

Methought I stood in Canterbury 
Minster, 

And spake to the Lord God, and said, 
" Lord, 

I have been a lover of wines, and 
delicate meats, 

And secular splendors, and a favorer 



Of players, and a courtier, and a 

feeder 
Of dogs and hawks, and apes, and 

lions, and lynxes. 
Am / the man 1 " And the Lord an- 

swer'd me, 
" Thou art the man, and all the more 

the man." 
And then I asked again, " O Lord my 

God, 
Henry the King hath been my friend, 

my brother, 
And mine uplifter in this world, and 

chosen me 
For this thy great archbishoprick, 

believing 
That I should go against the Church 

with him, 
And I shall go against him with tin 

Church, 
And I have said no word of this to 

him : 
" Am I the man I " And the Lord 

answer'd me, 
" Thou art the man, and all the more 

the man." 
And thereupon, methought, He drew 

toward me, 
And smote me down upon the Minster 

floor. 
I fell. 

Herbert. God make not thee, but 

thy foes, fall. 
Becket. I fell. Why falH Why 

did He smite me ? What ? 
Shall I fall off — to please the King 

once more ? 
Not fight — tho' somehow traitor to 

the King — 
My truest and mine utmost for the 

Church 1 
Herbert. Thou canst not fall that 

way. Let traitor be ; 
For how have fought thine utmost for 

the Church, 
Save from the throne of thine arch- 
bishoprick 1 
And how been made Archbishop 

hadst thou told him, 
" I mean to fight mine utmost for the 

Church, 
Against the King 1 " 



BECKET. 



S47 



Becket. But dost thou think the 

King 
Forced mine election ? 

Herbert. I do think the King 

Was potent in the election, and why 

not ? 
Why should not Heaven have so 

inspired the King ? 
Be comforted. Thou art the man — 

be thou 
A mightier Anselni. 

Becket. I do believe thee, then. I 

am the man. 
And yet I seem appalTd — on such a 

sudden 
At sueli an eagle-height I stand and 

see 
The rift that runs between me and the 

King. 
1 served our Theobald well when I 

was with him; 
1 served King Henry well as Chan- 
cellor ; 
1 am his no more, and I must serve 

the Church. 
This Canterbury is only less than 

Rome, 
And all ray doubts I fling from me 

like dust, 
Winnow and scatter all scruples to 

the wind, 
And all the puissance of the warrior, 
And all the wisdom of the Chancellor, 
And all the heap'd experiences of 

life, 
I cast upon the side of Canterbury — 
Our holy mother Canterbury, who 

sits 
With tatter'd robes. Laics and 

barons, thro' 
The random gifts of careless kings, 

have graspt 
Her livings, her advowsons, granges, 

farms, 
And goodly acres — we will make her 

whole ; 
Not one rood lost. And for these 

Royal customs, 
These ancient Royal customs — they 

are Royal, 
Nut of the Church and let them be 

anathema, 



And* all that speak for them ana- 
thema. 
Herbert. Thomas, thou art moved 

too much. 
Becket. ( ) Herbert, here 

I gash myself asunder from the King, 
Tho' leaving each, a wound; mine 

own, a grief 
To show the scar for ever — his, a 

hate 
Not ever to be heal'd. 

Enter Rosamund de Clifford, flying 

from Sir Reginald Fitzurse. 

Drops her veil. 

Becket. Rosamund de Clifford ! 

Rosamund. Save me, father, hide 
me — they follow me — and I must 
not be known. 

Becket. Pass in with Herbert there. 
[Exeunt Rosamund and Herbert 
by side door. 

Enter Fitzurse. 
Fitzurse. The Archbishop ! 
Becket. Ay ! what wouldst thou, 

Reginald ? 
Fitzurse. Why — why, my lord, I 

f ollow'd — follow 'd one 

Becket. And then what follows "? 

Let me follow thee. 
Fitzurse. It much imports me I 

should know her name. 
Becket. What her ? 
Fitzurse. The woman that I fol- 

low'd hither. 
Becket. Perhaps it may import her 

all as much 
Not to be known. 

Fitzurse. And what care I for that ? 
Come, come, my lord Archbishop ; I 

saw that door 
Close even now upon the woman. 
Becket. Well 1 

Fitzurse ( making for the door ) . Nay, 

let me pass, my lord, for I must 

know. 
Becht. Back, man ! 
Fitzurse. Then tell me who and 

what she is. 
Becket. Art thou so sure thou fol 

lowedst .-my thing ? 



848 



BECKET. 



Go home, and sleep thy wine off* for 

thine eyes 
Glare stupid-wild with wine. 

Fitzurse {making to the door). I 

must and will. 

I care not for thy new archbishoprick. 

Becket. Back, man, I tell thee ! 

What! 

Shall I forget my new archbishoprick 

And smite thee with my crozier on the 

skull ? 
'Fore God, I am a mightier man than 
thou. 
Fitzurse. It well befits thy new 
archbishoprick 
To take the vagabond woman of the 

street 
Into thine arms ! 

Becket. drunken ribaldry ! 

Out, beast ! out, bear ! 

Fitzurse. I shall remember this. 

Becket. Do, and begone ! 

[Exit Fitzurse. 
[Going to the door sees De Tracy. 
Tracy, what dost thou here 1 
De Tracy. My lord, I follow'd 

Reginald Fitzurse. 
Becket. Follow him out ! 
De Tracy. I shall remember this 
Discourtesy. [Exit. 

Becket. Do. These be those baron- 
brutes 
That havock'dall the land in Stephen's 

day. 
Rosamund de Clifford. 

Re-enter Rosamund and Herbert. 

Rosamund. Here am I. 

Becket. Why here 1 

We gave thee to the charge of John 

of Salisbury, 
To pass thee to thy secret bower to- 
morrow. 
Wast thou not told to keep thyself 
from sight 1 
Rosamund. Poor bird of passage ! 
so I was ; but, father, 
They say that you are wise in winged 

things, 
And know the ways of Nature. Bar 
the bird 



From following the fled summer — a 

chink — he's out, 
Gone ! And there stole into the city 

a breath 
Full of the meadows, and it minded 

me 
Of the sweet woods of Clifford, and 

the walks 
Where I could move at pleasure, and 

I thought 
Lo ! I must out or die. 

Becket. Or out and die. 

And what hast thou to do with this 
Fitzurse 1 
Rosamund. Nothing. He sued my 
hand. I shook at him. 
He found me once alone. Nay — 

nay — I cannot 
Tell you : my father drove him and 

his friends, 
De Tracy and De Brito, from our 

castle. 
I was but fourteen and an April 

then. 
I heard him swear revenge. 

Becket. Why will you court it 

By self-exposure 1 flutter out at night 1 

Make it so hard to save a moth from 

the fire ? 

Rosamund. I have saved many of 

'em. You catch 'em, so, 

Softly, and fling them out to the free 

air. 
They burn themselves within-door. 

Becket. Our good John 

Must speed you to your bower at 

once. The child 
Is there already. 

Rosamund. Yes — the child — the 
child — 
O rare, a whole long day of open field. 
Becket. Ay, but you go disguised. 
Rosamund. rare again ! 

We'll baffle them, I warrant. What 

shall it be ? 
I'll go as a nun. 

Becket. No. 

Rosamund. What, not good enough 
Even to play at nun 1 

Becket. Dan John with a nun, 

That Map, and these new railers at 
the Church 



BECKET. 



849 



May plaister his clean name with 

scurrilous rhymes ! 
No! 
Go like a monk, cowling and clouding 

up 
That fatal star, thy Beauty, from the 

squint 
Of lust and glare of malice. Good 

night ! good night ! 
Rosamund. Father, I am so tender 

to all hardness ! 
Nay, father, first thy blessing. 
Becket. Wedded? 

Rosamund. Father! 

Becket. Well, well ! I ask no more. 

Heaven bless thee ! hence ! 
Rosamund. 0, holy father, when 

thou seest him next, 
Commend me to thy friend. 
Becket. What friend ? 

Rosamund. The King. 

Becket. Herbert, take out a score of 

armed men 
To guard this bird of passage to her 

cage ; 
And watch Fitzurse, and if he follow 

thee 
Make him thy prisoner. I am Chan- 
cellor yet. 
[Exeunt Herbert and Rosamund. 
Poor soul ! poor soul ! 
My friend, the King ! . . . O thou Great 

Seal of England, 
Given- me by my dear friend the King 

of England — 
We long have wrought together, thou 

an 1 I — 
Now must I send thee as a common 

friend 
To tell the King, my friend, I am 

against him. 
We are friends no more : he will say 

that, not I. 
The worldly bond between us is dis- 
solved. 
Not yet the love : can I be under him 
As Chancellor? as Archbishop over 

him ? 
Go therefore like a friend slighted by 

one 
That hath climb'd up to nobler 

company. 



Not slighted — all but moan'd for: 

thou must go. 
I have not dishonor'd thee — I trust I 

have not ; 
Not mangled justice. May the hand 

that next 
Inherits thee be but as true to thee 
As mine hath been ! O, my dear 

friend, the King! 

brother ! — I may come to martyr- 

dom. 

1 am martyr in myself already. — 

Herbert ! 
Herbert (re-entering). My lord, the 

town is quiet, and the moon 
Divides the whole long street with 

light and shade. 
No footfall — no Fitzurse. We have 

seen her home. 
Becket. The hog hath tumbled him- 
self into some corner, 
Some ditch, to snore away his drunk- 
enness 
Into the sober headache, — Nature's 

moral 
Against excess. Let the Great Seal 

be sent 
Back to the King to-morrow. 

Herbert. Must that be ? 

The King may rend the bearer limb 

from limb. 
Think on it again. 

Becket. Against the moral excess 
No physical ache, but failure it may 

be 
Of all we aim'd at. John of Salisbury 
Hath often laid a cold hand on my 

heats, 
And Herbert hath rebuked me even 

now. 
I will be wise and wary, not the 

soldier 
As Foliot swears it. — John, and out 

of breath ! 

Enter John of Salisbury. 
John of Salisbury. Thomas, thou 
wast not happy taking charge 
Of this wild Rosamund to please the 

King, 
Nor am I happy having charge of 
her — 



850 



BECKET. 



The included Danae has escaped again 

Her tower, and her Acrisius — where 
to seek ? 

I have been about the city. 

Becket. Thou wilt find her 

Back in her lodging. Go with her — 
at once — 

To-night — my men will guard you to 
the gates. 

Be sweet to her, she has many ene- 
mies. 

Send the Great Seal by daybreak. 
Both, good night ! 



SCENE II. 

Street in Northampton leading 
to the Castle. 

Eleanor's Eetainers and Becket's 
Retainers fighting. Enter Elea- 
nor and Becket from opposite 
streets. 

Eleanor. Peace, fools ! 

Becket. Peace, friends ! what idle 

brawl is this ? 
Retainer of Becket. They said — her 

Grace's people — thou wast 

found — 
Liars ! I shame to quote 'em — caught, 

my lord, 
With a wanton in thy lodging — Hell 

requite 'em ! 
Retainer of Eleanor. My liege, the 

Lord Eitzurse reported this 
In passing to the Castle even now. 
Retainer of Becket. And then they 

mock'd us and we fell upon 

'em, 
Eor we would live and die for thee, 

my lord, 
However kings and queens may frown 

on thee. 
Becket {to his Retainers). Go, go — 

no more of this ! 
Eleanor {to her Retainers ) . A way ! — 

{Exeunt Retainers.) Eitz- 
urse 

Becket. Nay, let him be. 
Eleanor. No, no, my Lord Arch- 
bishop, 



'Tis known you are midwinter to all 

women, 
But often in your chancellorship you 

served 
The follies of the King. 

Becket. No, not these follies ! 

Eleanor. My lord, Fitzurse beheld 

her in your lodging. 
Becket. Whom ? 
Eleanor. Well — you know — the 

minion, Rosamund, 
Becket. He had good eyes ! 
Eleanor. Then hidden in the street 
He watch'd her pass with John of 

Salisbury 
And heard her cry " Where is this 
bower of mine 1 " 
Becket. Good ears too ! 
Eleanor. You are going to the 

Castle, 
Will you subscribe the customs 1 

Becket. I leave that, 

Knowing how much you reverence 

Holy Church, 
My liege, to your conjecture. 

Eleanor. I and mine — 

And many a baron holds along with 

me — 
Are not so much at feud with Holy 

Church 
But we might take your side against 

the customs — 
So that you grant me one slight favor. 
Becket. What ? 

Eleanor. A sight of that same chart 
which Henry gave you 
With the red line — " her bower." 
Becket. And to what end ? 

Eleanor. That Church must scorn 
herself whose fearful Priest 
Sits winking at the license of a king, 
Altho' we grant when kings are dan- 
gerous 
The Church must play into the hands 

of kings ; 
Look! I would move this wanton 

from his sight 
And take the Church's danger on 
myself. 
Becket. Eor which she should be 

duly grateful. 
Eleanor. True ! 



BECKET. 



851 



Tho' she that binds the bond, herself 

should Bee 
That kings are faithful to their mar- 
riage vow. 
Becket. Ay, Madam, and queens 

also. 
Eleanor. And queens also ! 

What is your drift ' 

Becket. My drift is to the Castle, 

Where 1 shall' meet the Barons and 

my King. [Exit. 

1)k Broc, De Tracy, De Brito, De 
Morville (passing). 
Eleanor. To the Castle * 
De Broc. Ay ! 

Eleanor. Stir up the King, the 

Lords ! 
Set all on fire against him ! 

De Brito. Ay, good Madam ! 

[Exeunt. 
Eleanor. Fool ! I will make thee 
hateful to thy King. 
Churl ! I will have thee frighted 

into France, 
And I shall live to trample on thy 
grave. 

S< ENE III. — The Hall in North- 
ampton Castle. 

On one side of the stage the doors of an 
inner Council-chamber, half open. At 
the bottom, the great doors of the Hall. 
Roger Archbishop of York, Fo- 
liot Bishop of London, Hilary 
of Chichester, Bishop of Here- 
ford, Richard de Hastings 
( Grand Prior of Templars), Philip 
de Eleemosyna (The Pope's Al- 
moner), and others. De Broc, 
Fitzlrse, De Brito, De Mor- 
ville, De Tracy, and other 
Barons assembled — a table before 
them. John of Oxford, President 
of the Council. 

Enter Becket and Herbert of 
Bosham. 

Becket. Where is the King ? 
Roger of York. Gone hawking on 
the Nene, 



His heart so gall'd with thine ingrati- 
tude. 

He will not see thy face till thou hast 
sign'd 

These ancient laws and customs of 
the realm. 

Thy sending back the Great Seal 
maddcn'd him, 

He all but pluck'd the bearer's eyes 
away. 

Take heed, lest he destroy thee ut- 
terly. 
Becket. Then shalt thou step into 

my place and sign. 
Roger of York. Didst thou not 
promise Henry to obey 

These ancient laws and customs of 
the realm ? 
Becket. Saving the honor of my 
order — ay. 

Customs, traditions, — clouds that 
come and go; 

The customs of the Church are Peter's 
rock. 
Roger of York. Saving thine order ! 
But King Henry sware 

That, saving his King's kingship, he 
would grant thee 

The crown itself. Saving thine order, 
Thomas, 

Is black and white at once, and comes 
to nought. 

bolster'd up with stubbornness and 
pride, 

Wilt thou destroy the Church in fight- 
ing for it, 

And bring us all to shame ? 

Becket. Roger of York, 

When I and thou were youths in 
Theobald's house, 

Twice did thy malice and thy calum- 
nies 

Exile me from the face of Theo- 
bald. 

Now I am Canterbury and thou art 
York. 
Roger of York. And is not York the 
peer of Canterbury ? 

Did not Great Gregory bid St. Austin 
here 

Found two archbishopricks, London 
and York ? 



852 



BECKET. 



Becket. What came of that 1 The 
first archbishop fled, 

And York lay barren for a hundred 
years. 

Why, by this rule, Foliot may claim 
the pall 

For London too. 

Foliot. And with good reason too, 

For London had a temple and a priest 

When Canterbury hardly bore a name. 
Becket. The pagan temple of a pa- 
gan Rome ! 

The heathen priesthood of a heathen 
creed ! 

Thou goest beyond thyself in petu- 
lancy ! 

Who made thee London % Who, but 
Canterbury '>. 
John of Oxford. Peace, peace, my 
lords ! these customs are no 
longer 

As Canterbury calls them, wandering 
clouds, 

But by the King's command are writ- 
ten down, 

And by the King's command I, John 
of Oxford, 

The President of this Council, read 
them. 
Becket. Read ! 

John of Oxford [reads). "All 

causes of advowsons and presenta- 
tions, whether between laymen or 

clerics, shall be tried in the King's 

court." 

Becket. But that I cannot sign : for 
that would drag 

The cleric before the civil judgment- 
seat, 

And on a matter wholly spiritual. 
John of Oxford. " If any cleric be 

accused of felony, the Church shall 

not protect him ; but he shall answer 

to the summons of the King's court 

to be tried therein." 

Becket. And that I cannot sign. 

Is not the Church the visible Lord on 
earth ? 

Shall hands that do create the Lord 
be bound 

Behind the back like laymen-crim- 
inals ? 



The Lord be judged again by Pilate ? 

No! 
John of Oxford. " When a bis- 
hoprick falls vacant, the King, till 
another be appointed, shall receive 
the revenues thereof." 

Becket. And that I cannot sign. Is 

the King's treasury 
A fit place for the monies of the 

Church, 
That be the patrimony of the poor i 
John of Oxford. "And when the 
vacancy is to be filled up, the King 
shall summon the chapter of that 
church to court, and the election shall 
be made in the Chapel Royal, with 
the consent of our lord the King, and 
by the advice of his Government." 
Becket. And that I cannot sign : for 

that would make 
Our island-Church a schism from 

Christendom, 
And weight down all free choice be- 
neath the throne. 
Foliot. And was thine own election 

so canonical, 
Good father ? 

Becket. If it were not, Gilbert 

Foliot, 
I mean to cross the sea to France, and 

lay 
My crozier in the Holy Father's 

hands, 
And bid him re-create me, Gilbert 

Foliot. 
Foliot. Nay ; by another of these 

customs thou 
Wilt not be suffer'd so to cross the seas 
Without the license of our lord the 

King. 
Becket. That, too, I cannot sign. 

De Broc, De Brito, De Tracy, 
Fitzurse, De Morville, start up 
— a clash of swords. 

Sign and obey ! 

Becket. My lords, is this a combat 
or a council 1 
Are ye my masters, or ray lord the 
King? 



BECKET. 



853 



Ye make tins clashing for no love o' 

the customs 
Or constitutions, or whate'er ye call 

them, 
But that there be among you those 

that hold 
Lands reft from Canterbury. 

Dt Broc. And mean to keep them, 
In spite of thee ! 
Lords (shouting). Sign, and obey the 

crown ! 
Becket. The crown ? Shall I do less 

for Canterbury 
Than Henry for the crown ? King 

Stephen gave 
Many of the crown lands to those that 

helpt him ; 
So did Matilda, the King's mother. 

Mark, 
When Henry came into his own 

again, 
Then he took back not only Stephen's 

gifts, 
But his own mother's, lest the crown 

should be 
Shorn of ancestral splendor. This 

did Henry. 
Shall I do less for mine own Canter- 
bury ? 
And thou, De Broc, that holdest Salt- 
wood Castle 

De Broc. And mean to hold it, 

or 

Becket. To have my life. 

De Broc. The King is quick to 

anger ; if thou anger him, 
We wait but the King's word to strike 

thee dead. 
Becket. Strike, and I die the death 

of martyrdom ; 
Strike, and ye set these customs by 

my death 
Kinging their own death-knell thro' 

all the realm. 
Herbert. And I can tell you, lords, 

ye are all as like 
To lodge a fear in Thomas Becket's 

heart 
As find a hare's form in a lion's cave. 
John of Oxford. Ay, sheathe your 

swords, ye will displease the 

King. 



De Broc. Why down then thou ! 

but an he come to Saltwood, 
By God's death, thou shalt stick him 

like a calf ! [Sheathing his sword. 
Hilary. O my good lord, I do en- 
treat thee — sign. 
Save the King's honor here before his 

barons. 
He hath sworn that thou shouldst 

sign, and now but shuns 
The semblance of defeat ; I have 

heard him say 
He means no more ; so if thou sign, 

my lord, 
That were but as the shadow of an 

assent. 
Becket. Twould seem too like the 

substance, if I sign'd. 
Philip de Eleemosyna. My lord, thine 

ear ! I have the ear of the Pope. 
As thou hast honor for the Pope our 

master, 
Have pity on him, sorely prest upon 
By the fierce Emperor and his Anti- 
pope. 
Thou knowest he was forced to fly to 

France ; 
He pray'd me to pray thee to pacify 
Thy King ; for if thou go against thy 

King, 
Then must he likewise go against thy 

King, 
And then thy King might join the 

Antipope, 
And that would shake the Papacy as 

it stands. 
Besides, thy King swore to our car- 
dinals 
He meant no harm nor damage to the 

Church. 
Smoot]ie thou his pride — thy signing 

is but form ; 
Nay, and should harm come of it it 

is the Pope 
Will be to blame — not thou. 'Over 

and over 
He told me thou shouldst pacify the 

King, 
Lest there be battle between Heaven 

and Earth, 
And Earth should get the better — 

for the time. 



854 



BECKET. 



Cannot the Pope absolve thee if thou 
sign ? 
Becket. Have I the orders of the 

Holy Father ? 
Philip de Eleemosyna. Orders, my 
lord — why, no ; for what am I ? 
The secret whisper of the Holy 

Father. 
Thou, that hast been a statesman, 

couldst thou always 
Blurt thy free mind to the air ? 

Becket. If Rome be feeble, then 

should I be firm. 
Philip. Take it not that way — 
balk not the Pope's will. 
When he hath shaken off the Em- 
peror, 
He heads the Church against the King 
with thee. 
Richard de Hastings [kneeling). 
Becket, I am the oldest of the 
Templars ; 
I knew thy father; he would be mine 

age 
Had he lived now; think of me as 

thy father ! 
Behold thy father kneeling to thee, 

Becket. 
Submit ; I promise thee on my salva- 
tion 
That thou wilt hear no more o' the 
customs. 
Becket. What ! 

Hath Henry told thee ? hast thou 
talk'd with him ? 
Another Templar [kneeling). Father, 
I am the youngest of the Tem- 
plars, 
Look on me as I were thy bodily son, 
For, like a son, I lift my hands to 
thee. 
Philip. Wilt thou hold out for ever, 
Thomas Becket 1 
Dost thou not hear ? 

Becket [signs). Why — there then 
— there — I sign, 
And swear to obey the customs. 

Foliot. Is it thy will, 

My lord Archbishop, that we too 
should sign ? 
Becket. ay, by that canonical 
obedience 



Thou still hast owed thy father, Gil 

bert Foliot. 
Foliot. Loyally and with good faith, 

my lord Archbishop ? 
Becket. O ay, with all that loyalty 

and good faith 
Thou still hast shown thy primate, 

Gilbert Foliot. 
[Becket draws apart with Herbert. 
Herbert, Herbert, have I betray'd the 

Church 1 
I'll have the paper back — blot out 

my name. 
Herbert. Too late, my lord : you see 

they are signing there. 
Becket. False to myself — it is the 

will of God 
To break me, prove me nothing of 

myself ! 
This Almoner hath tasted Henry's 

gold. 
The cardinals have finger'd Henry's 

gold. 
And Rome is venal ev'n to rotten- 
ness. 
I see it, I see it. 

I am no soldier, as he said — at least 
No leader. Herbert, till I hear from 

the Pope 
I will suspend myself from all my func- 
tions. 
If fast and prayer, the lacerating 

scourge 

Foliot [from the table). My lord 

Archbishop, thou hast yet to 

seal. 
Becket. First, Foliot, let me see 

what I have sign'd. 

[Goes to the table. 
What, this ! and this ! — what ! new 

and old together ! 
Seal 1 If a seraph shouted from the 

sun, 
And bade me seal against the rights of 

the Church, 
I would anathematize him. I will 

not seal. [Exit with Herbert. 

Enter King Henry. 
Henry. Where's Thomas % hath he 
sign'd 1 show me the papers ! 
Sign'd and not seal'd ! How's that 1 



BECKET. 



855 



John of Oxford. He would not seal. 
And when he sign'd, his face was 

stormy-red — 
Shame, wrath, I know not what. He 

sat down there 
And dropt it in his hands, and then a 

paleness, 
Like the wan twilight after sunset, 

crept 
Up even to the tonsure, and he 

groan'd, 
•False to myself! It is the will of 

God ! " 
Henri/. God's will be what it will, 

the man shall seal, 
Or I will seal his doom. My burgher's 

son — 
Nay. if I cannot break him as the 

prelate, 
I'll crush him as the subject. Send 

for him back. 

[Sits on his throne. 
Barons and bishops of our realm of 

England, 
After the nineteen winters of King 

Stephen — 
A reign which was no reign, when none 

could sit 
By his own hearth in peace ; when 

murder common 
As nature's death, like Egypt's plague, 

had fill'd 
All things with blood ; when every 

doorway blush'd, 
Dash'd red with that unhallow'd pass- 
over : 
When every baron ground his blade 

in blood ; 
The household dough was kneaded up 

with blood ; 
The millwheel turn'd in blood; the 

wholesome plow 
Lay rusting in the furrow's yellow 

weeds, 
Till famine dwarf t the race — I came, 

your King ! 
Nor dwelt alone, like a soft lord of 

the East, 
In mine own hall, and sucking thro' 

fools' ears 
The flatteries of corruption — went 

abroad 



Thro' all my counties, spied my peo- 
ple's ways ; 

Yea, heard the churl against the baron 
— yea," 

And did him justice ; sat in mine own 
courts 

Judging my judges, that had found a 
. King 

Who ranged confusions, made the 
twilight day, 

And struck a shape from out the 
vague, and law 

From madness. And the event — our 
fallows till'd, 

Much corn, repeopled towns, a realm 
again. 

So far my course, albeit not glassy- 
smooth, 

Had prosper'd in the main, but sud- 
denly 

Jarr'd on this rock. A cleric violated 

The daughter of his host, and mur- 
der'd him. 

Bishops — York, London, Chichester, 
Westminster — 

Ye haled this tonsured devil into your 
courts , 

But since your canon will not let you 
take 

Life for a life, ye but degraded him 

Where I had hang'd him. What doth 
hard murder care 

For degradation ? and that made me 
muse, 

Being bounden by my coronation oath 

To do men justice. Look to it, your 
own selves ! 

Say that a cleric murder'd an arch- 
bishop, 

What could ye do ? Degrade, imprison 
him — 

Not death for death. 

John of Oxford. But I, my liege, 
could swear, 

To death for death. 

Henry. And, looking thro' my reign, 

I found a hundred ghastly murders 
done 

By men, the scum and offal of the 
Church; 

Then, glancing thro' the story of this 
realm, 



856 



BECKET. 



I came on certain wholesome usages, 

Lost in desuetude, of my grandsire's 
day, 

Good royal customs — had them writ- 
ten fair 

For John of Oxford here to read to 
you. 
John of Oxford. And I can easily 
swear to these as being 

The King's will and God's will and 
justice ; yet 

1 could but read a part to-day, be- 
cause 

Fitzurse. Because my lord of Can- 
terbury 

De Tracy. Ay, 

This lord of Canterbury 

De Brito. As is his wont 

Too much of late whene'er your royal 
rights 

Are mooted in our councils 

Fitzurse. — made an uproar. 

Henry. And Becket had my bosom 
on all this ; 

If ever man by bonds of grateful- 
ness — 

I raised him from the puddle of the 
gutter, 

I made him porcelain from the clay 
of the city — 

Thought that I knew him, err'd thro' 
love of him, 

Hoped, were he chosen archbishop, 
Church and Crown, 

Two sisters gliding in an equal 
dance, 

Two rivers gently flowing side by 
side — 

But no ! 

The bird that moults sings the same 
song again, 

The snake that sloughs comes out a 
snake again. 

iSnake — ay, but he that lookt a fang- 
less one, 

Issues a venomous adder. 

For he, when having dofft the Chan- 
cellor's robe — - 

Flung the Great Seal of England in 
my face — 

-Claim'd some of our crown lands for 
Canterbury -» 



My comrade, boon companion, my co- 
reveller, 
The master of his master, the King's 

king. — 
God's eyes ! I had meant to make him 

all but king. 
Chancellor- Archbishop, he might well 

* have sway'd 
All England under Henry, the young 

King, 
When I was hence. What did the 

traitor say 7 
False to himself, but ten-fold false to 

me ! 
The will of God — why, then it is my 

will — 
Is he coming 1 

Messenger (entering). With a crowd 

of worshippers, 
And holds his cross before him thro' 

the crowd, 
As one that puts himself in sanctuary. 
Henry. His cross ! 
Roger of York. His cross ! I'll front 

him, cross to cross. 

[Exit Roger of York. 
Henry. His cross ! it is the traitor 

that imputes 
Treachery to his King ! 
It is not safe for me to look upon 

him. 
Away — with me ! 

[Goes in with his Barons to the 

Council Chamber, the door of 

which is left open. 

Enter Becket, holding his cross of silver 
before him. The Bishops come round 
him. 

Hereford. The King will not abide 
thee with thy cross. 
Permit me, my good lord, to bear it 

for thee, 
Being thy chaplain. 

Becket. No : it must protect me. 
Herbert. As once he bore the stand- 
ard of the Angles, 
So now he bears the standard of the 
angels. 
Foliot. I am the Dean of the prov- 
ince : let me bear it. 



BECKET. 



857 



Make not thy King a traitorous mur- 
derer. 
Becket. Did not your barons draw 
their swords against me '. 

Enter Roger of York, with his cross, 
advancing to Becket. 

Becket. Wherefore dost thou pre- 
sume to bear thy cross, 

Against the solemn ordinance from 
Rome. 

Out of thy province ? 

Roger of York. Why dost thou pre- 
sume, 

Arm'd with thy cross, to come before 
the King ? 

If Canterbury bring Ins cross to court, 

Let York bear his to mate with Can- 
terbury. 
Foliot (seizing hold o/'Becket's cross). 
Nay, nay, my lord, thou must 
not brave the King. 

Nay, let me have it. I will have it! 
Becket. Away ! [Flinging him off. 
Foliot. He fasts, they say, this mi- 
tred Hercules ! 

He fast ! is that an arm of fast ! My 
lord, 

Hadst thou not sign'd, I had gone 
along with thee; # 

But thou the shepherd hast betray'd 
the sheep, 

And thou art perjured, and thou wilt 
not seal. 

As Chancellor thou wast against the 
Church, 

Now as Archbishop goest against the 
King; 

For, like a fool, thou knowst no mid- 
dle way. 

Ay, ay ! but art thou stronger than 
the King ? 
Becket. Strong — not in mine own 
self, but Heaven ; true 

To either function, holding it ; and 
thou 

Fast, scourge thyself, and mortify thy 
flesh, 

Not spirit — thou rernainest Gilbert 
Foliot, 

A worldly follower of the worldly 
strong. 



1, hearing this great ensign, make it- 
clear 

Under what Prince I fight. 
Foliot. My lord of York, 

Let us go in to the Council, where our 
bishops 

And our great lords will sit in judg- 
ment on him. 
Becket. Sons sit in judgment on 
their father ! — then 

The spire of the Holy Church may 
prick the graves — 

Her crypt among the stars. Sign 1 
seal ? I promised 

The King to obey these customs, not 
yet written, 

Saving mine order ; true too, that 
when written 

I sign'd them — being a fool, as Foliot 
call'd me. 

I hold not by my signing. Get ye 
hence, 

Tell what I say to the King. 

[Exeunt Hereford,Yoliot,and other 

Bishops. 

Boger of York. The Church 

will hate thee. [Exit. 

Becket. Serve my best friend and 

make him my worst foe ; 

Fight for the Church, and set the 
Church against me ! 
Herbert. To be honest is to set all 
knaves against thee. 

Ah ! Thomas, excommunicate them 
all! 
Hereford (re-entering). I cannot 
brook the turmoil thou hast 
raised. 

I would, my lord Thomas of Canter- 
bury, 

Thou wert plain Thomas and not Can- 
terbury, 

Or that thou wouldst deliver Canter- 
bury 

To our King's hands again, and be at 
peace. 
Hilary (re-entering). For hath not 
thine ambition set the Church 

This day between the hammer and 
the anvil — 

Fealty to the King, obedience to thy- 
self ? 



858 



BECKET. 



Herbert. What say the bishops ? 
Hilary. Some have pleaded for him, 
But the King rages — most are with 

the King ; 
And some are reeds, that one time 

sway to the current, 
And to the wind another. But we hold 
Thou art forsworn ; and no forsworn 

Arelibishop 
Shall helm the Church. We therefore 

place ourselves 
Under the shield and safeguard of the 

Pope, 
And cite thee to appear before the 

Pope, 
And answer thine accusers. . . . Art 
thou deaf 1 
Becket. I hear you. [ Clash of arms. 
Hilary. Dost thou hear 

those others ? 
Becket. Ay ! 

Roger of York (re-entering). The 
King's " God's eyes ! " come now 
so thick and fast, 
We fear that he may reave thee of 

thine own. 
Come on, come on ! it is not fit for us 
To see the proud Archbishop muti- 
lated. 
Say that he blind thee and tear out 
thy tongue. 
Becket. So be it. He begins at top 
with me ; 
They crucified St. Peter downward. 

Roger of York. Nay, 

But for their sake who stagger betwixt 

thine 
Appeal, and Henry's anger, yield. 
Becket. Hence, Satan ! 

[Exit Roger of York. 
Fitzurse (re-entering). My lord, the 
King demands three hundred 
marks, 
Due from his castles of Berkham- 

stead and Eye 
When thou thereof wast warden. 

Becket. Tell the King 

I spent thrice that in fortifying his 
castles. 
De Tracy (re-entering). My lord, 
the King demands seven hun- 
dred marks, 



Lent at the siege of Thoulouse by the 
King.. 
Becket. I led seven hundred knights 

and fought his wars. 
De Brito (re-entering). My lord, the 
King demands five hundred 
marks, 
Advanced thee at his instance by the 

Jews, 
For which the King was bound secu- 
rity. 
Becket. I thought it was a gift ; 1 
thought it was a gift. 

Enter Lord Leicester {followed by 

Barons and Bishops). 

Lord Leicester. My lord, I come 

unwillingly. The King 

Demands a strict account of all those 

revenues 
Prom all the vacant sees and abbacies, 
Which came into thy hands when 
Chancellor. 
Becket. How much might that 
amount to, my lord Leicester ? 
Leicester. Some thirty — forty thou- 
sand silver marks. 
Becket. Are these your customs ? 
my good lord Leicester, 
The King and I were brothers. All 1 
Ifad 

the glory of the 



for 



I lavish'd 

King; 
I shone from him, for him, his glory, 

his 
Reflection : now the glory of the 

Church 
Hath swallow'd up the glory of the 

King; 
I am his no more, but hers. Grant 

me one day 
To ponder these demands. 

Leicester. Hear first thy sentence ! 

The King and all his lords 

Becket. Son, first hear me ! 

Leicester. Nay, nay, canst thou, that 

holdest thine estates 
In fee and barony of the King, decline 
The judgment of the King 1 

Becket. The King ! I hold 

Nothing in fee and barony of the 

King. 



BECKET. 



859 



Whatever the Church owns — she 

holds it in 
Free and perpetual alms, unsubject to 
One earthly sceptre. 

Leicester. Nay, but hear 

thy judgment. 

The King and all his barons 

Becket. Judgment ! Barons i 

Who but the bridegroom dares to 

judge the bride, 
Or he the bridegroom may appoint? 

Not he 
That is not of the house, but from the 

street 
Stain'd with the mire thereof. 

I had been so true 
To Henry and mine office that the 

King 
Would throne me in the great Arch- 

bishoprick : 
And I, that knew mine own infirmity, 
For the King's pleasure rather than 

God's cause 
Took it upon me — err'd thro' love of 

him. 
Now therefore God from me withdraws 

Himself, 
And the King too. 

What ! forty thousand marks ! 
Why thou, the King, the Pope, the 

Saints, the world, 
Know that when made Archbishop I 

was freed, 
Before the Prince and chief Justiciary, 
From every bond and debt and obli- 
gation 
lncurr'd as Chancellor. 

Hear me, son. 

As gold 
Outvalues dross, light darkness, Abel 

( 'ain, 
The soul the body, and the Church 

the Throne, 
I charge thee, upon pain of mine 

anathema, 
That thou obey, not me, but God in 

me, 
Rather than Henry. I refuse to stand 
By the King's censure, make my cry 

to the Pope, 
By whom I will be judged ; refer my- 
self, 



The King, these customs, all the 

Church, to him, 
And under his authority — I depart. 

[Going. 
[Leicester looks at him doubt inyly. 
Am I a prisoner ? 

Leicester. By St. Lazarus, no ! 

I am confounded by thee. Go in 
peace. 
De Broc. In peace now — but after. 
Take that for earnest. 

[Flinys a bone at him from the rushes. 



De Brito, Fitzurse, De Tract and 
others {flinyiny wisps of rushes). 

Ay, go in peace, caitiff, caitiff ! And 
that too, perjured prelate — and that, 
turncoat shaveling ! There, there, 
there ! traitor, traitor, traitor ! 
Becket. Mannerless wolves ! 

\_Turning and facing them. 

Herbert. Enough, my lord, enough ! 

Becket. Barons of England and of 

Normandy, 

When what ye shake at doth but 

seem to fly, 
True test of coward, ye follow with 

a yell. 
But I that threw the mightiest knight 
of France, 

Sir Engelram de Trie, 

Herbert. Enough, my lord. 

Becket. More than enough. I play 
the fool again. 



Enter Herald. 

Herald. The King commands you, 

upon pain of death, 
That none should wrong or injure 

your Archbishop. 
Foliot. Deal gently with the young 

man Absalom. 
[ Great doors of the Halt at the back 

open, and discover a crowd. 
They shout : Blessed is he that 

cometh in the name of the 

Lord ! 



860 



BECKET. 



SCENE IV. — Refectory of the 
Monastery at Northampton. A 
Banquet on the Tables. 

Enter Becket. Becket's Retainers. 

First Retainer. Do thou speak first. 

Second Retainer. Nay, thou! Nay, 
thou ! Hast not thou drawn the short 
straw ? 

First Retainer. My lord Archbishop, 
wilt thou permit us 

Becket. To speak without stammer- 
ing and like a free man ? Ay. 

First Retainer. My lord, permit us 
then to leave thy service. 

Becket. When ? 

First Retainer. Now. 

Becket. To-night ? 

First Retainer. To-night, my lord. 

Becket. And why ? 

First Retainer. My lord, we leave 
thee not without tears. 

Becket. Tears 1 Why not stay with 
me then ? 

First Retainer. My lord, we cannot 
yield thee an answer altogether to thy 
satisfaction. 

Becket. I warrant you, or your 
own either. Shall I find you one ? 
The King hath frowned upon me. 

First Retainer. That is not altogether 
our answer, my lord. 

Becket. No; yet all but all. Go, 
go ! Ye have eaten of my dish and 
drunken of my cup for a dozen years. 

First Retainer. And so we have. 
We mean thee no wrong. Wilt thou 
not say, " God bless you/' ere we go 1 

Becket. God bless you all ! God 
redden your pale blood ! But mine is 
human-red ; and when ye shall hear it 
is poured out upon earth, and see it 
mounting to Heaven, may God bless 
you, that seems sweet to you now, will 
blast and blind you like a curse. 

First Retainer. We hope not, my 
lord. Our humblest thanks for your 
blessing. Farewell ! 

[Exeunt Retainers. 

Becket. Farewell, friends ! fare- 
well, swallows ! I wrong the bird ; 



she leaves only the nest she built, they 
leave the builder. Why 1 Am I to 
be murdered to-night ? 

[Knocking at the door. 

Attendant. Here is a missive left at 
the gate by one from the castle. 

Becket. Cornwall's hand or Leices- 
ter's : they write marvellously alike. 
[Reading. 

" Ely at once to France, to King 
Louis of France : there be those about 
our King who would have thy blood." 

Was not my lord of Leicester bid- 
den to our supper ? 

Attendant. Ay, my lord, and divers 
other earls and barons. But the hour 
is past, and our brother, Master Cook, 
he makes moan that all be a-getting 
cold. 

Becket. And I make my moan along 
with him. Cold after warm, winter 
after summer, and the golden leaves, 
these earls and barons, that clung to 
me, frosted off me by the first cold 
frown of the King. Cold, but look 
how the table steams, like a heathen 
altar ; nay, like the altar at Jerusalem. 
Shall God's good gifts be wasted ? 
None of them here ! Call in the poor 
from the streets, and let them feast. 

Herbert. That is the parable of our 
blessed Lord. 

Becket. And why should not the 
parable of our blessed Lord be acted 
again ? Call in the poor ! The Church 
is ever at variance with the kings, and 
ever at one with the poor. I marked 
a group of lazars in the market-place 
— half-rag, half-sore — beggars, poor 
rogues (Heaven bless 'em) who never 
saw or dreamed of such a banquet. I 
will amaze them. Call them in, I say. 
They shall henceforward be my earls 
and barons — our lords and masters 
in Christ Jesus. [Exit, Herbert. 

If the King hold his purpose, I am 
myself a beggar. Forty thousand 
marks ! forty thousand devils — and 
these craven bishops ! 

A Poor Man (entering) with his dog. 
My lord Archbishop, may I come in 
with my poor friend, my dog ? The 



B EC RET. 



861 



King's verdurer caught him a-hunt- 
ing in the forest, and cut off his paws. 
The dog followed his calling, ray lord. 
I ha' carried him ever so many miles 
in my arms, and he licks my face and 
moans and cries out against the King. 
Becket. Better thy dog than thee. 
The King's courts would use thee 
worse than thy dog — they are too 
bloody. Were the Church king, it 
would be otherwise. Poor beast ! 
poor beast ! set him down. I will bind 
up his wounds with my napkin. Give 
him a bone, give him a bone ! Who 
misuses a dog would misuse a child — 
they cannot speak for themselves. 
Past help ! his paws are past help. 
God help him ! 

Enter the Beggars [and seat themselves 

at the Tables). Becket and Herbert 

wait upon them. 

First Beggar. Swine, sheep, ox — 
here's a French supper. When thieves 
fall out, honest men 

Second Beggar. Is the Archbishop 
a thief who gives thee thy supper? 

First Beggar. Well, then, how does 
it go ? When honest men fall out, 
thieves — no, it can't be that. 

Second Beggar. Who stole the 
widow's one sitting hen o' Sunday, 
when she was at mass 1 

First Beggar. Come, come ! thou 
hadst thy share on her. Sitting hen! 
Our Lord Becket's our great sitting- 
hen cock, and we shouldn't ha' been 
sitting here if the barons and bishops 
hadn't been a-sitting on the Arch- 
bishop. 

Becket. Ay, the princes sat in judg- 
ment against me, and the Lord hath 
prepared your table — Sederunt prin- 
ripes, ederunt pauperes. 

A Voice. Becket, beware of the 
knife ! 

Becket. Who spoke ? 

Third Beggar. Nobody, my lord. 
What's that, my lord ? 

Becket. Venison. 

Third Beggar. Venison '. 

Becket. Buck; deer, as you call it. 



Third Beggar. King's meat ! By 
the Lord, won't we pray for your lord- 
ship ! 

Becket. And, my children, your 
prayers will do more for me in the day 
of peril that dawns darkly and drear- 
ily over the house of God — yea, and 
in the day of judgment also, than the 
swords of the craven sycophants would 
have done had they remained true to 
me whose bread they have partaken. 
I must leave you to your banquet. 
Feed, feast, and be merry. Herbert, 
for the sake of the Church itself, if 
not for my own, I must fly to France 
to-night. Come with me. 

[Exit icith Herbert. 

Third Beggar. Here — all of you — 

my lord's health (they drink). Well 

— if that isn't goodly wine 

First Beggar. Then there isn't a 
goodly wench to serve him with it: 
they were fighting for her to-day in 
the street. 

Third Beggar. Peace ! 
First Beggar. The black sheep baaed 
to the miller's ewe-lamb, 
The miller's away for to-night. 
Black sheep, quoth she, too black a 
sin for me. 
And what said the black sheep, ray 
masters ? 
We can make a black sin white. 
Third Beggar. Peace ! 
First Beggar. " Ewe lamb, ewe 
lamb, I am here by the dam." 
But the miller came home that 
night, 
And so dusted his back with the 
meal in his sack, 
That he made the black sheep 
white. 
Third Beggar. Be we not of the 
family ? be we not a-supping with the 
head of the family ? be we not in my 
lord's own refractory 1 Out from 
among us ; thou art our black sheep. 

Enter the four Knights. 
Fitzurse. Sheep, said he ? And 
sheep without the shepherd, too. 
Where is my lord Archbishop ? Thou 



862 



BECKET. 



the lustiest and lousiest of this Cain's 
brotherhood, answer. 

Third Beggar. With Cain's answer, 
my lord. Am I his keeper ? Thou 
shouldst call him Cain, not me. 

Fitzurse. So I do, for he would 
murder his brother the State. 

Third Beggar (rising and advancing). 
No, my lord ; but because the Lord 
hath set his mark upon him that no 
man should murder him. 

Fitzurse. Where is he % where is he ? 

Third Beggar. With Cain belike, in 
the land of Nod, or in the land of 
France for aught I know. 

Fitzurse. France ! Ha ! De Mor- 
ville, Tracy, Brito — fled is he % Cross 
swords all of you ! swear to follow 
him ! Remember the Queen ! 

[The four Knights cross their swords. 

De Brito. They mock us ; he is here. 
[All the Beggars rise and advance 
upon them. 

Fitzurse. Come, you filthy knaves, 
let us pass. 

Third Beggar. Nay, my lord, let us 
pass. We be a-going home after our 
supper in all humbleness, my lord ; for 
the Archbishop loves humbleness, my 
lord ; and though we be fifty to four, 
we daren't fight you with our crutches, 
my lord. There now, if thou hast not 
laid hands upon me ! and my fellows 
know that I am all one scale like a 
fish. I pray God I haven't given thee 
my leprosy, my lord. 

[Fitzurse shrinks from him and an- 
other presses upon De Brito. 

De Brito. Away, dog ! 

Fourth Beggar. And I was bit by a 
mad dog o' Friday, an' I be half dog 
already by this token, that tho' I can 
drink wine I cannot bide water, my 
lord ; and I want to bite, I want to bite, 
and they do say the very breath catches. 

De Brito. Insolent clown. Shall I 
smite him with the edge of the sword 1 

De Morville. No, nor with the flat 
of it either. Smite the shepherd and 
the sheep are scattered. Smite the 
sheep and the shepherd will excom- 
municate thee. 



De Brito. Yet my fingers itch to 
beat him into nothing. 

Fifth Beggar. So do mine, my lord. 
I was born with it, and sulphur won't 
bring it out o' me. But for all that 
the Archbishop washed my feet o' 
Tuesday. He likes it, my lord. 

Sixth Beggar. And see here, my 
lord, this rag fro' the gangrene i' my 
leg. It's humbling — it smells o' hu- 
man natur'. Wilt thou smell it, my 
lord ? for the Archbishop likes the 
smell on it, my lord ; for I be his 
lord and master i' Christ, my lord. 

De Morville. Faugh ! we shall all be 
poisoned. Let us go. 

[ They draw back, Beggars following. 

Seventh Beggar. My lord, I ha' three 
sisters a-dying at home o' the sweat- 
ing sickness. They be dead while I be 
a-supping. 

Eighth Beggar. And I ha' nine dar- 
ters i' the spital that be dead ten times 
o'er i' one day wi' the putrid fever ; 
and I bring the taint on it along wi' 
me, for the Archbishop likes it, my 
lord. 

[Pressing upon the Knights till they 
disappear thxo' the door. 

Third Beggar. Crutches, and itches, 
and leprosies, and ulcers, and gan- 
grenes, and running sores, praise ye 
the Lord, for to-night ye have saved 
our Archbishop ! 

First Beggar. I'll go back again. I 
hain't half done yet. 

Herbert of Bosham (entering). My 
friends, the Archbishop bids you good- 
night. He hath retired to rest, and 
being in great jeopardy of his life, he 
hath made his bed between the altars, 
from whence he sends me to bid you 
this night pray for him who hath fed 
you in the wilderness. 

Third Beggar. So we will — so we 
will, I warrant thee. Becket shall be 
king and the Holy Father shall be 
king, and the world shall live by the 
King's venison and the bread o' the 
Lord, and there shall be no more poor 
for ever. Hurrah ! Vive le roy .' 
That's the English of it. 



BECKET. 



863 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. — Rosamund's Bower. 
A Garden of Flowers. In the 

MIDST A BANK OF WILD-FLOWERS 
WITH A BENCH BEFORE IT. 

Voices heard singing among the trees. 



1. Is it the wind of the dawn that I 

hear in the pine overhead ? 

2. No ; but the voice of the deep as it 

hollows the cliffs of the land. 

1. Is there a voice coming up with 

the voice of the deep from the 
strand, 
One coming up with a song in the 
flush of the glimmering red ? 

2. Love that is born of the deep com- 

ing up with the sun from the sea. 

1. Love that can shape or can shatter 

a life till the life shall have fled? 

2. Nay, let us welcome him, Love 

that can lift up a life from the 
dead. 

1. Keep him away from the lone little 

isle. Let us be, let us be. 

2. Nay, let him make it his own, let 

him reign in it — he, it is he, 
Love that is born of the deep com- 
ing up with the sun from the 
sea. 

Enter Henry and Rosamund. 
Rosamund. Be friends with him 

again — I do beseech thee. 
Henry. With Becket ? I have but 

one hour with thee — 
Sceptre and crozier clashing, and the 

mitre 
Grappling the crown — and when I 

flee from this 
For a gasp of freer air, a breathing- 
while 
To rest upon thy bosom and forget 

him — 
Why thou, my bird, thou pipest 

Becket, Becket — 
Yea, thou my golden dream of Love's 

own bower. 



Must be the nightmare breaking on 

my peace 
With " Becket." « 

Rosamund. () my life's life, not to 
smile 
Is all but death to me. My sun, no 

cloud ! 
Let there not be one frown in this one 

hour. 
Out of the many thine, let this be 

mine ! 
Look rather thou all-royal as when 

first 
1 met thee. 

Henri/. Where was that ? 
Rosamund. Forgetting that 

Forgets me too. 

Henri/. Nay, I remember it well. 
There on the moors. 

Rosamund. And in a narrow path. 
A plover flew before thee. Then I saw 
Thy high black steed among the flam- 
ing furze, 
Like sudden night in the main glare 

of day. 
And from that height something was 

said to me 
I knew not what. 

Henri/. I ask'd the way. 
Rosamund. I think so. 

So I lost mine. 

Henri/. Thou wast too shamed to 

answer. 
Rosamund. Too scared — so young ! 
Henri/. The rosebud of my rose ! — 
Well, well, no more of him — I have 

sent his folk, 
His kin, all his belongings, overseas ; 
Age, orphans, and babe-breasting 

mothers — all 
By hundreds to him — there to beg, 

starve, die — 
So that the fool King Louis feed them 

not. 
The man shall feel that I can strike 
him yet. 
Rosamund. Babes, orphans, moth- 
ers ! is that royal, Sire 1 
Henry. And I have been as royal 
with the Church. 
He sheltered in the Abbey of Fon- 
tigny. 



864 



BECKET. 



There wore his time studying the 

canon law 
Tjo work it against me. But since he 

cursed 
My friends at Veselay, I have let 

them know, 
That if they keep him longer as their 

guest, 
I scatter all their cowls to all the 
hells. 
Rosamund. And is that altogether 

royal 1 
Henry. Traitress ! 
Rosamund. A faithful traitress to 

thy royal fame. 
Henry. Fame ! what care I for 
fame ? Spite, ignorance, envy, 
Yea, honesty too, paint her what way 

they will. 
Fame of to-day is infamy to-morrow ; 
Infamy of to-day is fame to-morrow ; 
And round and round again. What 

matters ? Koyal — 
I mean to leave the royalty of my 

crown 
Unlessen'd to mine heirs. 

Rosamund. Still — thy fame too : 
I say that should be royal. 

Henry. And I say, 

1 care not for thy saying. 

Rosamund. And I say, 

I care not for thy saying. A greater 

King 
Than thou art, Love, who cares not 

for the word, 
Makes " care not " — care. There 
have I spoken true ? 
Henry. Care dwell with me forever, 
when I cease 
To care for thee as ever ! 

Rosamund. No need ! no need ! . . . 
There is a bench. Come, wilt thou 

sit 1 ... My bank 

Of wild-flowers. [He sits/] At thy feet ! 

[She sits at his feet. 

Henry. I bade them clear 

A royal pleasaunce for thee, in the 

wood, 
Not leave these countryfolk at court. 
Rosamund. I brought them 

In from the wood, and set them here. 
I love them 



More than the garden flowers, that 

seem at most 
Sweet guests, or foreign cousins, not 

half speaking 
The language of the land. I love 

them too, 
Yes. But, my liege, I am sure, of all 

the roses — 
Shame fall on those who gave it a 

dog's name — 
This wild one (picking a briar-rose) — 

nay, I shall not prick myself — 
Is sweetest. Do but smell! 

Henry. Thou rose of the world ! 
Thou rose of all the roses ! 

[Muttering. 
I am not worthy of her — this beast- 
body 
That God has plunged my soul in — I, 

that taking 
The Fiend's advantage of a throne, so 

long 
Have wander'd among women, — a 

foul stream 
Thro' fever-breeding levels, — at her 

side, 
Among these happy dales, run clearer, 

drop 
The mud I carried, like yon brook, and 

glass 
The faithful face of heaven — 
[Looking at her and unconsciously aloud. 
— Thine! thine! 
Rosamund. I know it. 

Henry (muttering). Not hers. We 

have but one bond, her hate of 

Becket. 
Rosamund (half hearing). Nay ! nay ! 

what art thou muttering 1 I 

hate Becket *? 
Henry (muttering). A sane and 

natural loathing for a soul 
Purer, and truer and nobler than her- 
self ; 
And mine a bitterer illegitimate hate, 
A bastard hate born of a former love. 
Rosamund. My fault to name him ! 

let the hand of one 
To whom thy voice is all her music, 

stay it 
But for a breath. 

[Puts her hand before his lips. 



BECKET. 



865 



Speak only of thy love. 
Why there — like some loud beggar 

at thy gate — 
The happy boldness of this hand hath 

won it 

Love's alms, thy kiss (looking at her 

hand) — Sacred ! I'll kiss it 

too. [Kissing it. 

There ! wherefore dost thou so peruse 

it 1 Nay, 
There may be crosses in my line of 
life" 
Henri/. Not half her hand — no hand 
to mate with her, 
If k should come to that. 

Bosamund. With her ? with whom ? 
Henri;. Life on the hand is naked 
gipsy-stuff ; 
Life on the face, the brows — clear 

innocence ! 
Vein'd marble — not a furrow yet — 
and hers [Muttering. 

Crost and recrost, a venomous spider's 

web 

Rosa/ivrnd (springing up). Out of the 
cloud, ray Sun — out of the 
eclipse 
Narrowing my golden hour ! 

Henrn. O Iiosamund, 

I would be true — would tell thee all 

— and something 
I had to say — I love thee none the 

less — 
Which will so vex thee. 

Rosamund. Something against me? 
Henry. No, no, against myself. 
Rosamund. I will not hear it. 
Come, come, mine hour ! I bargain 

for mine hour. 
I'll call thee little Geoffrey. 

Henn/. Call him ! 

Rosamund. Geoffrey ! 

Enter Geoffrey. 
Henri/. How the boy grows ! 
Rosamund Ay, and his brows are 
thine; 
The mouth is only Clifford, my dear 
father. 
Geoffrey. My liege, what hast thou 

brought me ? 
Henry. Venal imp ! 



What say'st thou to the Chancellor- 
ship of England 1 
Geoffrey. yes, my liege. 
Henry. " O yes, my liege ! " He 
speaks 
As if it were a cake of gingerbread. 

Dost thou know, my boy, what it is 
to be Chancellor of England ? 

Geoffrey. Something good, or thou 
wouldst not give it me. 

Henry. It is, my boy, to side with 
the King when Chancellor, and then 
to be made Archbishop and go against 
the King who made him ; and turn the 
world upside down. 

Geoffrey. I won't have it then. 

Nay, but give it me, and I promise 

thee not to turn the world upside down. 

Henry (giving him a ball). Here is 

a ball, 'my boy, thy world, to turn 

anyway and play with as thou wilt — 

which is more than I can do with 

mine. Go try it, play. [Exit Geoffrey. 

A pretty lusty boy. 

Rosamund. So like to thee ; 

Like to be liker. 

Henry. Not in my chin, I hope ! 
That threatens double. 

Rosamund. Thou art manlike per- 
fect. 
Henry. Ay, ay, no doubt ; and were 
I humpt behind, 
Thou'd say as much — the goodly 

way of women 
Who love, for which 1 love them. 

May God grant 
No ill befall or him or thee when I 
Am gone. 

Rosamund. Is he thy enemy 1 
Henry. He ? who ? ay ! 

Rosamund. Thine enemy knows the 

secret of my bower. 
Henry. And I could tear him 
asunder with wild horses 
Before he would betray it. Nay — 

no fear ! 
More like is he to excommunicate me. 
Rosamund. And I would creep, 
crawl over knife-edge flint 
Barefoot, a hundred leagues, to slay 

his hand 
Before he flash'd the bolt. 



866 



BECKET, 



Henry. And when he flash'd it 

Shrink from me, like a daughter of 
the Church. 
Rosamund. Ay, hut he will not. 
Henry. Ay ! but if he did ? 

Rosamund. then ! then ! I 
almost fear to say 
That my poor heretic heart would 

excommunicate 
His excommunication, clinging to thee 
Closer than ever. 

Henry (raising Rosamund and kiss- 
ing her). My brave-hearted 
Rose! 
Hath he ever been to see thee '? 

Rosamund. Here 1 not he. 

A.nd it is so lonely here — no con- 
fessor. 
Henry. Thou shalt confess all thy 

sweet sins to me. 
Rosamund. Besides, we came away 
in such a heat, 
I brought not ev'n my crucifix. 

Henry. Take this. 

[Giving her the Crucifix which 
Eleanor gave him. 
Rosamund. O beautiful ! May I 
have it as mine, till mine 
Be mine again ? 

Henry (throwing it round her neck). 
Thine — as I am — till death ! 
Rosamund. Death % no ! I'll have 
it with me in my shroud, 
And wake with it, and show it to all 
the Saints. 
Henry. Nay — I must go ; but when 
thou layest thy lip 
To this, remembering One who died 

for thee, 
Remember also one who lives for thee 
Out there in France ; for I must hence 

to brave 
The Pope, King Louis, and this turbu- 
lent priest. 
Rosamund, (kneeling). O by thy love 
for me, all mine for thee, 
Fling not thy soul into the flames of 

hell: 
I kneel to thee — be friends with him 
again. 
Henry. Look, look ! if little Geof- 
frey have not tost 



His ball into the brook ! makes after 

it too 
To find it. Why, the child will drown 
himself. 
Rosamund. Geoffrey ! Geoffrey ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE II. — Montmirail. " The 
Meeting of the Kings." John 
of Oxford and Henry. Crowd 
in the distance. 

John of Oxford. You have not 

crown'd young Henry yet, my 

liege ? 

Henry. Crown'd! by God's eyes, 

we will not have him crown'd. 

I spoke of late to the boy, he an- 

swer'd me, 
As if he wore the crown already — 

No, 
We will not have him crown'd. 
'Tis true what Becket told me, that 

the mother 
Would make him play his kingship 
against mine. 
John of Oxford. Not have him 

crown'd 1 
Henry. Not now — not yet! and 
Becket — 
Becket should crown him were he 

crown'd at all : 
But, since we would be lord of our 

own manor, 
This Canterbury, like a wounded deer, 
Has fled our presence and our feeding- 
grounds. 
John of Oxford. Cannot a smooth 
tongue lick him whole again 
To serve your will 1 

Henry. He hates my will, not me. 
John of Oxford. There's York, my 

liege. 
Henry. But England scarce would 
hold 
Young Henry king, if only crown'd 

by York, 
And that would stilt up York to twice 

himself. 
There is a movement yonder in the 
crowd — 



RECKET. 



S6; 



Sec if our pious — what shall I call 
him, John 1 — 

llusband-in-law, our smooth-shorn 
suzerain, 

Be yet within the field. 

John of Oxford. I will. [Exit. 

Henry. Ay ! Ay ! 

Mince and go back ! his politic Holi- 
ness 

Hath all but climb'd the Roman perch 
again, 

And we shall hear him presently with 
clapt wing 

Crow over Barbarossa — at last 
tongue-free 

To blast my realms with excommuni- 
cation 

And interdict. I must patch up a 
peace — 

A piece in this long-tugged at, thread- 
bare worn 

Quarrel of Crown and Church — to 
rend again. 

His Holiness cannot steer straight 
thro' shoals, 

Nor I. The citizen's heir hath con- 
quer'd me 

For the moment. So we make our 
peace with him. 

Enter Louis. 

Brother of France, what shall be done 

with Becket ? 
Louis. The holy Thomas ! Brother, 

you have traffick'd 
Between the Emperor and the Pope, 

between 
The Pope and Antipope— a perilous 

game 
For men to play with God. 

Henry. Ay, ay, good brother, 

They call you the Monk-King. 

Louis. Who calls me ? she 

That was my wife, now yours 1 You 

have her Duchy, 
The point you aim'd at, and pray 

God she prove 
True wife to you. You have had the 

better of us 
In secular matters. 

Henri/. Come, confess, goodbrother, 



You did your best or worst to keep 

her Duchy. 
Only the golden Leopard printed in it 
Such hold-fast claws that you per- 
force again 
Shrank into France. Tut, tut! did 

we convene 
This conference but to babble of our 

wives ? 
They are plagues enough in-door. 
Louis. We fought in the East, 
And felt the sun of Antioch scald our 

mail, 
And push'd our lances into Saracen 

hearts. 
We never hounded on the State at 

home 
To spoil the Church. 

Henri/. How should you see this 

rightly ? 
Louis. Well, well, no more ! I am 

proud of my " Monk-King/' 
Whoever named me ; and, brother, 

Holy Church 
May rock, but will not wreck, nor our 

Archbishop 
Stagger on the slope decks for any 

rough sea 
Blown by the breath of kings. We 

do forgive you 
For aught you wrought against us. 

[Henry holds up his hand. 

Nay, I pray you, 

Do not defend yourself. You will do 

much 
To rake out old dying heats, if 

you, 
At my requesting, will but look into 
The wrongs you did him, and restore 

his kin, 
Reseat him on his throne of Canter- 
bury, 
Be, both, the friends you were. 

Henry. The friends we were ! 

Co-mates we were, and had our sport 

together, 
Co-kings we were, and made the laws 

together. 
The world had never seen the like 

before. 
You are too cold to know the fashion 

of it. 



868 



BECKET. 



Well, well, we will be gentle with 

him, gracious — 
Most gracious. 

Enter Becket, after him, John of 
Oxford, Roger of York, Gil- 
bert Foliot, De Broc, Fitzurse, 

etc. 

Only that the rift he made 
May close between us, here I am 

wholly king, 
The word should come from him. 
Becket {kneeling). Then, my dear 

liege, 
I here deliver all this controversy 
Into your royal hands. 

Henry. Ah, Thomas, Thomas, 

Thou art thyself again, Thomas again. 

Becket (rising). Saving God's honor! 

Henry. Out upon thee, man ! 

Saving the Devil's honor, his yes and 

no. 
Knights, bishops, earls, this London 

spawn — by Mahound, 
I had sooner have been born a Mus- 
sulman — 
Less clashing with their priests — 
I am half-way down the slope — will 

no man stay me 1 
I dash myself to pieces — I stay my- 
self— 
Puff — it is gone. You, Master 

Becket, you 
That owe to me your power over me — 
Nay, nay — 
Brother of France, you have taken, 

cherish'd him 
Who thief-like fled from his own 

church by night, 
No man pursuing. I would have had 

him back. 
Take heed he do not turn and rend 

you too : 
For whatsoever may displease him — 

that 
Is clean against God's honor — a shift, 

a trick 
Whereby to challenge, face me out of 

all 
My regal rights. Yet, yet — that 

none may dream 



I go against God's honor — ay, or him- 
self 
In any reason, choose 
A hundred of the wisest heads from 

England, 
A hundred, too, from Normandy and 

Anjou: 
Let these decide on what was cus- 
tomary 
In olden days, and all the Church of 

France 
Decide on their decision, I am con 

tent. 
More, what the mightiest and the 

holiest 
Of all his predecessors may have done 
Ev'n to the least and meanest of my 

own, 
Let him do the same to me — I am 

content. 
Louis. Ay, ay ! the King humbles 

himself enough. 
Becket (aside). Words! he will 

wriggle out of them like an eel 
When the time serves. (Aloud.) My 

lieges and my lords, 
The thanks of Holy Church are due 

to those 
That went before us for their work, 

which we 
Inheriting reap an easier harvest. 

Yet 

Louis. My lord, will you be greater 

than the Saints, 
More than St. Peter? whom — — 

what is it you doubt % 
Behold your peace at hand. 

Becket. I say that those 

Who went before us did not wholly 

clear 
The deadly growths of earth, which 

Hell's own heat 
So dwelt on that they rose and dark- 

en'd Heaven. 
Yet they did much. Would God they 

had torn up all 
By the hard root, which shoots again ; 

our trial 
Had so been less; but, seeing they 

were men 
Defective or excessive, must we fol- 
low 



BECKET. 



869 



All that they overdid or underdid ? 

Nay, if they were defective as St. 
Peter 

Denying Christ, who yet defied the 
tyrant, 

We hold by his defiance, not his de- 
fect. 

good son Louis, do not counsel me, 
No, to suppress God's honor for the 

sake 
Of any king that breathes. No, God 

forbid ! 
Henri/. No! God forbid! and turn 

me Mussulman ! 
No God but one, and Mahound is his 

prophet. 
But for your Christian, look you, you 

shall have 
None other God but me — me, Thomas, 

son 
Of Gilbert Becket, London merchant. 

Out! 

1 hear no more. [Exit. 
Louis. Our brother's anger puts 

him, 
l'oor man, beside himself — not wise. 

My lord, 
We have claspt your cause, believing 

that our brother 
Had wrong'd you; but this day he 

proffer'd peace. 
You will have war; and tho' we grant 

the Church 
King over this world's kings, yet, my 

good lord, 
We that are kings are something in 

this world, 
And so we pray you, draw yourself 

from under 
The wings of France. We shelter 

you no more. [Exit. 

John of Oxford. I am glad that 

France hath scouted him at 

last: 
I told the Pope what manner of man 

he was. [Exit. 

Roger of York. Yea, since he flouts 

the will of either realm, 
Let either cast him away like a dead 

dog! [Exit. 

Foliot. Yea, let a stranger spoil his 

heritage, 



And let another take his bishoprick ! 

[Exit, 
De Broc. Our castle, my lord, be- 
longs to Canterbury. 
I pray you come and take it. [Exit. 
Fitzurse. When you will. [Exit. 
Becket. Cursed be John of Oxford, 

Roger of York, 
And Gilbert Foliot.! cursed those De 

Brocs 
That hold our Saltwood Castle from 

our see ! 
Cursed Fitzurse, and all the rest of 

them 
That sow this hate between my lord 

and me ! 
Voices from the Crowd. Blessed be 
the Lord Archbishop, who hath with- 
stood two Kings to their faces for the 
honor of God. 
Becket. Out of the mouths of babes 

and sucklings, praise ! 
I thank you, sons ; when kings but 

hold by crowns, 
The crowd that hungers for a crown 

in Heaven 
Is my true king. 

Herbert. Thy true King bade thee be 
A fisher of men; thou hast them in 

thy net. 
Becket. I am too like the King 

here ; both of us 
Too headlong for our office. Better 

have been 
A fisherman at Bosham, my good 

Herbert, 
Thy birthplace — the sea-creek — the 

petty rill 
That falls into it — the green field — 

the gray church — 
The simple lobster-basket, and the 

mesh — 
The more or less of daily labor done — 
The pretty gaping bills in the home- 
nest 
Piping for bread — the daily want 

supplied — 
The daily pleasure to supply it. 

Herbert. Ah, Thomas, 

You had not borne it, no, not for a 

day. 
Becket. Well, maybe, no. 



870 



BECKET. 



Herbert. But bear with Walter Map, 
For here he comes to comment on 
the time. 

Enter Walter Map. 

Walter Map. Pity, my lord, that 
you have quenched the warmth of 
France toward you, tho' His Holiness, 
after much smouldering and smoking, 
be kindled again upon your quarter. 

Becket. Ay, if he do not end in 
smoke again. 

Walter Map. My lord, the fire, 
when first kindled, said to the smoke, 
" Go up, my son, straight to Heaven." 
And the smoke said, "I go"; but 
anon the North-east took and turned 
him South-west, then the South-west 
turned him North-east, and so of the 
other winds ; but it was in him to go 
up straight if the time had been 
quieter. Your lordship affects the 
unwavering perpendicular; but His 
Holiness, pushed one way by the Em- 
pire and another by England, if he 
move at all, Heaven stay him, is fain 
to diagonalize. 

Herbert. Diagonalize ! thou art a 
word-monger ! 
Our Thomas never will diagonalize. 
Thou art a jester and a verse-maker. 
Diagjonalize ! 

Walter Map. Is the world any the 
worse for my verses if the Latin 
rhymes be rolled out from a full 
mouth 1 or any harm done to the 
people if my jest be in defence of the 
Truth 1 

Becket. Ay, if the jest be so done 
that the people 
Delight to wallow in the grossness of it, 
Till Truth herself be shamed of her 

defender. 
Non defensoribus istis, Walter Map. 

Walter Map. Is that my case 1 so if 
the city be sick, and I cannot call the 
kennel sweet, your lordship would sus- 
pend me from verse-writing, as you 
suspended yourself after sub-writing 
to the customs. 

Becket. I pray God pardon mine in- 
firmity. 



Walter Map. Nay, my lord, take 
heart; for tho' you suspended yourself, 
the Pope let you down again; and tho' 
you suspend Foliot or another, the 
Fope will not leave them in suspense, 
for the Pope himself is always in sus- 
pense, like Mahouncl's coffin hung be- 
tween heaven and earth — always in 
suspense, like the scales, till the weight 
of Germany or the gold of England 
brings one of them down to the dust 

— always in suspense, like the tail of 
the horologe — to and fro — tick-tack 

— we make the time, we keep the time, 
ay, and we serve the time ; for I have 
heard say that if you boxed the Pope's 
ears with a purse, you might stagger 
him, but he would pocket the purse. 
No saying of mine — Jocelyn of Salis- 
bury. But the King hath bought half 
the College of Redhats. He warmed 
to you to-day, and you have chilled 
him again. Yet you both love God. 
Agree with him quickly again, even 
for the sake of the Church. My one 
grain of good counsel which you will 
not swallow. I hate a split between 
old friendships as I hate the dirty gap 
in the face of a Cistercian monk, that 
will swallow anything. Farewell. 

[Exit. 

Becket. Map scoffs at Rome. I all 

but hold with Map. 
Save for myself no Rome were left in 

England, 
All had been his. Why should this 

Rome, this Rome, 
Still choose Barabbas rather than the 

Christ, 
Absolve the left-hand thief and damn 

the right ? 
Take fees of tyranny, wink at sacri- 
lege, 
Which even Peter had not dared 1 

condemn 
The blameless exile ? — 

Herbert. Thee, thou holy Thomas ! 
I would that thou hadst been the Holy 

Father. 
Becket. I would have done my most 

to keep Rome holy, 



BECKET. 



871 



I would have made Rome know she 

still is Rome — 
Who stands aghast at her eternal self 
And shakes at mortal kings — her 

vacillation, 
Avarice, craft — God, how many an 

innocent 
Has left his bones upon the way to 

Rome 
Unwept, uncared for. Yea — on mine 

own self 
The King had had no power except 

for Rome. 
Tis not the King who is guilty of 

mine exile, 
But Rome, Rome, Rome ! 

Herbert. My lord, I see this Louis 
Returning, ah ! to drive thee from his 

realm. 
Becket. He said as much before. 

Thou art no prophet. 
Nor yet a prophet's son. 

Herbert. Whatever he say, 

Deny not thou God's honor for a king. 
The King looks troubled. 

Re-enter King Louis. 
Louis. My dear lord Archbishop, 
I learn but now that those poor Poite- 

vins. 
That in thy cause w r ere stirr'd against 

King Henry, 
Have been, despite his kingly promise 

given 
To our own self of pardon, evilly used 
And put to pain. I have lost all trust 

in him. 
The Church alone hath eyes — and 

now I see 
That I was blind — suffer the phrase 

— surrendering 
God's honor to the pleasure of a man. 
Forgive me and absolve me, holy 

father. [Kneels. 

Becket. Son, I absolve thee in the 

name of God. 
Louis (risinq). Return to Sens, where 

we will care for you. 
The wine and wealth of all our France 

are your- ; 
Rest in our realm, and be ;it peace 

with all. \Exeunt. 



Voices from the Crowd. Long live the 
good King Louis ! God bless the 
great Archbishop ! 

Re-enter Henry and John of 
Oxford. 

Henri/ (looking after King Louis and 

Becket). Ay, there they go — 

both backs are turn'd to me — 
Why then I strike into my former 

path 
For England, crown young Henry 

there, and make 
Our waning Eleanor all but love me ! 

John, 
Thou hast served me heretofore with 

Rome — and well. 
They call thee John the Swearer. 

John of Oxford. For this reason, 
That, being ever duteous to the King, 
I evermore have sworn upon his side, 
And ever mean to do it. 

Henri/ (claps him on shoulder). Honest 

John ! 
To Rome again ! the storm begins 

again. 
Spare not thy tongue ! be lavish with 

our coins, 
Threaten our junction with the Em- 
peror — flatter 
And fright the Pope — bribe all the 

Cardinals — leave 
Lateran and Vatican in one dust of 

gold — 
Swear and unswear, state and misstate 

thy best ! 
I go to have young Henry crown'd by 

York. 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. — The Bower. 

Henry and Rosamund. 

Henri/. All that you say is just. 1 
cannot answer it 
Till better times, when I shall put 

away 

Rosamund. What will you put 
away ? 



872 



BECKET. 



Henry. That which you ask me 

Till better times. Let it content you 

now 
There is no woman that I love so 
well. 
Rosamund. No woman but should 

be content with that — 
Henry. And one fair child to fon- 
dle ! 
Rosamund. yes, the child 

We waited for so long — heaven's gift 

at last — 
And how you doated on him then ! 

To-day 
I almost fear'd your kiss was colder 

— yes — 

But then the child is such a child. 

What chance 
That he should ever spread into the 

man 
Here in our silence ? I have done my 

best. 
I am not learn'd. 

Henry. I am the King, his father, 
And I will look to it. Is our secret 

ours % 
Have you had any alarm? no stranger'? 
Rosamund. No. 

The warder of the bower hath given 

himself 
Of late to wine. I sometimes think 

he sleeps 
When he should watch ; and yet what 

fear % the people 
Believe the wood enchanted. No one 

comes, 
Nor foe nor friend ; his fond excess of 

wine 
Springs from the loneliness of my 

poor bower, 
Which weighs even on me. 

Henry. Yet these tree-towers, 

Their long bird-echoing minster-aisles, 

— the voice 

Of the perpetual brook, these golden 
slopes 

Of Solomon-shaming flowers — that 
was your saying, 

All pleased you so at first. 

Rosamund. Not now so much. 

My Anjou bower was scarce as beau- 
tiful. 



But you were oftener there. I have 

none but you. 
The brook's voice is not yours, and no 

flower, not 
The sun himself, should he be changed 

to one, 
Could shine away the darkness of that 

gap 
Left by the lack of love. 

Henry. The lack of love I 

Rosamund. Of one we love. Nay, 
I would not be bold, 

Yet hoped ere this you might 

[Looks earnestly at him. 
Henry. Anything further 1 

Rosamund. Only my best bower- 
maiden died of late, 
And that old priest whom John of 

Salisbury trusted 
Hath sent another. 

Henry. Secret 1 

Rosamund. I but ask'd her 

One question, and she primm'd her 

mouth and put 
Her hands together — thus — and said, 

God help her, 
That she was sworn to silence. 

Henry. What did you ask her ? 

R.osamund. Some daily something- 
nothing. 
Henry. Secret, then 1 

Rosamund. I do not love her. Must 
you go, my liege, 
So suddenly 1 

Henry. I came to England suddenly 
And on a great occasion sure to 
wake 

As great a wrath in Becket 

Rosamund. Always Becket ! 

He always comes between us. 

Henry. — And to meet it 

I needs must leave as suddenly. It is 

raining, 
Put on your hood and see me to the 
bounds. [Exeunt, 

Margery (singing behind scene). 

Babble in bower 

Under the rose ! . 
Bee mustn't buzz, 

Whoop — but he knows. 



BECKET. 



873 



Kiss me, little one, 

Nobody near ! 
Grasshopper, grasshopper. 
Whoop — you can hear. 

Kiss in the bower, 

Tit on the tree ! 
Bird mustn't tell, 

Whoop — he can see. 

Enter Margery. 
I ha' been but a week here and I ha' 
>een what I ha' seen, for to be sure it's 
no more than a week since our old 
Father Philip that has confessed our 
mother for twenty years, and she was 
hard put to it, and to speak truth, 
nigh at the end of our last crust, and 
that mouldy, and she cried out to him 
to put me forth in the world and to 
make me a woman of the world, and 
to win my own bread, whereupon he 
asked our mother if I could keep a 
quiet tongue i' my head, and not speak 
till I was spoke to, and 1 answered for 
myself that I never spoke more than 
was needed, and he told me he would 
advance me to the service of a great 
lady, and took me ever so far away, 
and gave me a great pat o' the cheek 
for a pretty wench, and said it was a 
pity to blindfold such eyes as mine, 
and such to be sure they be, but he 
blinded 'em for all that, and so brought 
me no-hows as I may say, and the more 
shame to him after his promise, into 
a garden and not into the world, and 
bade me whatever I saw not to speak 
one word, an' it 'ud be well for me in 
the end, for there were preat ones who 
would look after me, and to be sure I 
ha' seen great ones to-day — and then 
not to speak one word, for that's the 
rule o' the garden, tho' to be sure if I 
had been Eve i' the garden I shouldn't 
ha' minded the apple, for what's an 
apple, you know, save to a child, and 
I'm no child, but more a woman o' the 
world than my lady here, and I ha' 
seen what I ha' seen — tho' to be sure 
if I hadn't minded it we should all on 
us ha' hud to go, bless the Saints, wi' 



bare backs, but the backs 'ud ha' coun- 
tenanced one another, and belike it 'ud 
ha' been always summer, and anyhow 
I am as well-shaped as my lady here, 
and I ha' seen what I ha' seen, and 
what's the good of my talking to my- 
self, for here comes my lady {enter 
Rosamund), and, my lady, tho' I 
shouldn't speak one word, I wish you 
joy o' the King's brother. 

Rosamund. What is it you mean? 

Margery. I mean your goodman, 
your husband, my lady, for I saw your 
ladyship a-parting wi' him even now 
i' the coppice, when I was a-getting o' 
bluebells for your ladyship's nose to 
smell on — and I ha' seen the King 
once at Oxford, and he's as like the 
King as fingernail to fingernail, and I 
thought at first it was the King, only 
you know the King's married, for King 
Louis 

Rosamund. Married ! 

Margery. Years and years, my lady, 
for her husband, King Louis 

Rosamund. Hush ! 

Margery. — And I thought if it were 
the King's brother he had a better 
bride than the King, for the people do 
say that his is bad beyond all reckon- 
ing, and 

Rosamund. The people lie. 

Margery. Very like, my lady, but 
most on 'em know an honest woman 
and a lady when they see her, and be- 
sides they say, she makes songs, and 
that's against her, for I never knew an 
honest woman that could make songs, 
tho' to be sure our mother 'ill sing me 
old songs by the hour, but then, God 
help her, she had 'em from her mother, 
and her mother from her mother back 
and back for ever so long, but none 
on 'em ever made songs, and they were 
all honest. 

Rosamund. Go, you shall tell me of 
her some other time. 

Margery. There's none so much to 
tell on her, my lady, only she kept the 
seventh commandment better than 
some I know on, or I couldn't look 
your ladyship i'the face,and 6hebrew'd 



874 



BECKET. 



the best ale in all Glo'ster,that is to say 
in her time when she had the " Crown." 
Rosamund. The crown ! who ? 
Margery. Mother. 
Rosamund. I mean her whom you 
call — fancy — my husband's brother's 
wife. 

Margery. Oh, Queen Eleanor. Yes, 
my lady ; and tho' I be sworn not to 
speak a word, I can tell you all about 

her, if 

Rosamund. No word now. I am 

faint and sleepy. Leave me. 
Nay — go. What ! will you anger me. 
[Exit Margery, 
lie charged me not to question any of 

those 
Aboutme. Havel? no! she question'd 

me. 
Did she not slander him ? Should she 

stay here 1 
May she not tempt me, being at my 

side, 
To question her ? Nay, can I send her 

hence 
Without his kingly leave ! I am in 

the dark. 
I have lived, poor bird, from cage to 

cage, and known 
Nothing but him — happy to know no 

more, 
So that he loved me — and he loves 

me — yes, 
And bound me by his love to secrecy 
Till his own time. 

Eleanor, Eleanor, have I 
Not heard ill things of her in France ? 

Oh, she's 
The Queen of France. I see it — some 

confusion, 
Some strange mistake. I did not hear 

aright, 
Myself confused with parting from the 

King. 
Margery (behind scene). 

Bee mustn't buzz, 

Whoop — but he knows. 
Rosamund. Yet her — what her 1 ? he 

hinted of some her — 
When he was here before — 
Something that would displease me. 

Hath he stray 'd 



From love's clear path into the com- 
mon bush, 
And, being scratch'd, returns to his 

true rose, 
Who hath not thorn enough to prick 

him for it, 
Ev'n with a word ? 

Margery (behind scene). 
Bird mustn't tell, 
Whoop — he can see. 
Rosamund. I would not hear him. 
Nay — there's more — he f rown'd 
" No mate for her, if it should come 

to that " — 
To that — to what ? * 
Margery (behind scene). 

Whoop — but he knows, 
Whoop — but he knows. 
Rosamund. O God ! some dreadful 
truth is breaking on me — 
Some dreadful thing is coming on me. 

Enter Geoffrey. 

Geoffrey ! 
Geoffrey. What are you crying for, 

when the sun shines ? 
Rosamund. Hath not thy father left 

us to ourselves ? 
Geoffrey. Ay, but he's taken the 
rain with him. I hear Margery : 
I'll go play with her. 

[Exit Geoffrey. 
Rosamund. Rainbow, stay, 
Gleam upon gloom, 
Bright as my dream, 
Rainbow, stay ! 
But it passes away, 
Gloom upon gleam, 
Dark as my doom — 
O rainbow, stay. 

SCENE II. — Outside the Woods 
near Rosamund's Bower. 

Eleanor. Fitzurse. 

Eleanor. Up from the salt lips of 

the land we two 
Have track'd the King to this dark 

inland wood ; 
And somewhere hereabouts he van- 

ish'd. Here 



BECKET. 



875 



His turtle builds: his exit is our 

adit : 
Watch ! he will out again, and pres- 
ently. 
Seeing he must to Westminster and 

crown 
Young Henry there to-morrow. 

Fit: We have wateh'd 

So long in vain, he hath pass'd out 

jain, 
And on the other side. 

[A great horn winded. 

Hark ! Madam ! 

Eleanor. Ah, 

How ghostly sounds that horn in the 

back wood ! 

[A countryman flying. 

Whither away, man \ what are you 

flying 1'rom 1 

Countryman. The witch ! the witch ! 

she sits naked by a great heap of 

gold in the middle of the wood, and 

when the horn sounds she comes out 

as a wolf. Get you hence ! a man 

passed in there to-day: I holla'd to 

him, but he didn't hear me : he'll 

never out again, the witch has got 

him. I daren't stay — I daren't stay ! 

Eleanor. Kind of the witch to give 

thee warning tho'. [Man flies. 

Is not this wood-witch of the rustic's 

fear 
Our woodland Circe that hath witch'd 
the King ? 

[Horn sounded. Another flying. 
Fitzurse. Again ! stay, fool, and tell 

me why thou fliest. 
Countryman. Fly thou too. The 
King keeps his forest head of game 
here, and when that horn sounds, a 
score of wolf-dogs are let loose that 
will tear thee piecemeal. Linger not 
till the third horn. Fly ! [Exit. 

Eleanor. This is the likelier tale. 
We have hit the place. 
Now let the King's fine game look to 
itself. [Horn. 

Fitzurse. Again ! — 
And far on in the dark heart of the 

wood 
I hear the yelping of the hounds of 
hell. 



Eleanor. I have my dagger here to 

still their throats. 
Fitzurse. Nay, Madam, not to-night 
— the night is falling. 
What can be done to-night ? 

Eleanor. Wei I — well — away. 



SCENE III. — Traitor's Meadow 
at Freteval. Pavilions and 
Tents of the English and 
French Baronage. 

Becket and Herbert of Bosham. 

Becket. See here ! 
Herbert. What's here % 
Becket. A notice from the priest, 
To whom our John of Salisbury com- 
mitted 
The secret of the bower, that our 

wolf-Queen 
Is prowling round the fold. I should 

be back 
In England ev'n for this. 

Herbert. These are by-things 

In the great cause. 

Becket. The by-things of the Lord 
Are the wrong'd innocences that will 

cry 
From all the hidden by-ways of the 

world 
In the great day against the wronger. 

I know 
Thy meaning. Perish she, I, all, be- 
fore 
The Church should suffer wrong ! 

Herbert. Do you see, my lord, 

There is the King talking with Wal- 
ter Map ? 
Becket. He hath the Pope's last let- 
ters, and they threaten 
The immediate thunder-blast of inter- 
dict : 
Yet he can scarce be touching upon 

those, 
Or scarce would smile that fashion. 

Herbert. Winter sunshine ! 

Beware of opening out thy bosom to it, 
Lest thou, myself, and all thy flock 

should catch 
An after ague-fit of trembling. Look ! 



876 



BECKET. 



He bows, he bares his head, he is 

coming hither, 
Still with a smile. 

Enter King Henry and Walter 
Map. 

Henry. We have had so many hours 
together, Thomas, 
So many happy hours alone together, 
That I would speak with you once 
more alone. 

Becket. My liege, your will and 
happiness are mine. 

[Exeunt King and Becket. 

Herbert. The same smile still. 

Walter Map. Do you see that great 
black cloud that hath come over the 
sun and cast us all into shadow ? 

Herbert. And feel it too. 

Walter Map. And see you yon side- 
beam that is forced from under it, 
and sets the church-tower over there 
all a-hell-fire as it were 1 

Herbert. Ay. 

Walter Map. It is this black, bell- 
silencing, anti-marrying, burial-hin- 
dering interdict that hath squeezed 
out this side-smile upon Canterbury, 
whereof may come conflagration. 
Were I Thomas, I wouldn't trust it. 
Sudden change is a house on sand ; 
and tho' I count Henry honest enough, 
yet when fear creeps in at the front, 
honesty steals out at the back, and 
the King at last is fairly scared by 
by this cloud — this interdict. I have 
been more for the King than the 
Church in this matter — yea, even for 
the sake of the Church : for, truly, as 
the case stood, you had safelier have 
slain an archbishop than a she-goat : 
but our recoverer and upholder of cus- 
toms hath in this crowning of young- 
Henry by York and London so violated 
the immemorial usage of the Church, 
that, like the gravedigger's child I have 
heard of, trying to ring the bell, he 
hath half-hanged himself in the rope 
of the Church, or rather pulled all 
the Church with the Holy Father 
astride of it down upon his own head. 



Herbert. Were you there ? 

Walter Map. In the church rope ? 
— no. I was at the crowning, for I 
have pleasure in the pleasure of 
crowds, and to read the faces of men 
at a great show. 

Herbert. And how did Roger of 
York comport himself ? 

Water Map. As magnificently and 
archiepiscopally as our Thomas would 
have done : only there was a dare- 
devil in his eye — I should say a dare- 
Becket. He thought less of two 
kings than of one Roger the king of 
the occasion. Foliot is the holier 
man, perhaps the better. Once or 
twice there ran a twitch across his 
face as who should say what's to fol- 
low 1 but Salisbury was a calf cowed 
by Mother Church, and every now 
and then glancing about him like a 
thief at night when he hears a door 
open in the house and thinks "the 
master." 

Herbert. And the father-king ? 

Walter Map. The father's eye was 
so tender it would have called a goose 
off the green, and once he strove to 
hide his face, like the Greek king 
when his daughter was sacrificed, but 
he thought better of it : it was but 
the sacrifice of a kingdom to his son, 
a smaller matter; but as to the young 
crownling himself, he looked so mala- 
pert in the eyes, that had I fathered 
him I had given him more of the rod 
than the sceptre. Then followed the 
thunder of the captains and the shout- 
ing, and so we came on to the ban- 
quet, from whence there puffed out 
such an incense of unctuosity into 
the nostrils of our Gods of Church 
and State, that Lucullus or Apicius 
might have sniffed it in their Hades 
of heathenism, so that the smell of 
their own roast had not come across 
it 

Herbert. Map, tho' you make your 
butt too big, you overshoot it. 

Walter Map. — For as to the fish; 
they de-miracled the miraculous 



BECKET. 



877 



draught, and might have sunk a 
navy 

If rbert. There again, Goliasing and 
Goliathising! 

Walter Map. — And as for the flesh 
at table, a whole Peter's sheet, with all 
manner of game, and four-footed 
things, and fowls 

Herbert. And all manner of creep- 
ing things too ? 

Waiter Map. — Well, there were 
Abbots — but they did not bring their 
women ; and so we were dull enough 
at first, but in the end we flourished 
out into a merriment ; for the old 
King would act servitor and hand a 
dish to his son ; whereupon my Lord 
of York — his fine-cut face bowing 
and beaming with all that courtesy 
which hath less loyalty in it than the 
backward scrape of the clown's heel 

— " great honor," says he, " from the 
King's self to the King's son." Did 
you hear the young King's quip ? 

Herbert. No, what was it? 

Walter Map. Glancing at the days 
when his father was only Earl of 
Anjou, he answered: — "Should not 
an earl's son wait on a king's son 1 " 
And when the cold corners of the 
King's mouth began to thaw, there 
was a great motion of laughter among 
us, part real, part childlike, to be 
freed from the dulness — part royal, 
for King and kingling both laughed, 
and so we could not but laugh, as by 
a royal necessity — partchildlikeagain 

— when we felt we had laughed too 
long and could not stay ourselves — 
many midriff-shaken even to tears, as 
springs gush out after earthquakes — 
but from those, as I said before, there 
may come a conflagration — tho', to 
keep the figure moist and make it hold 
water, I should say rather, the lacry- 
mation of a lamentation ; but look if 
Thomas have not flung himself at the 
King's feet. They have made it up 
again — for the moment. 

Herbert. Thanks to the blessed 
Magdalen, whose day it is. 



Re-enter Henry and Becket. (Dur- 
ing their conference the Barons and 
Bishops of France and England 
come in at bach of stage.) 

Becket. Ay, King ! for in thy king- 
dom, as thou knowest, 
The spouse of the Great King, thy 

King, hath fallen — 
The daughter of Zion lies beside' the 

way — 
The priests of Baal tread her under- 
foot — 
The golden ornaments are stolen from 

her 

Henry. Have I not promised to re- 
store her, Thomas, 
And send thee back again to Canter- 
bury 1 
Becket. Send back again those exiles 
of my kin 
Who wander famine-wasted thro' the 
world. 
Henry. Have I not promised, man, 

to send them back 1 
Becket. Yet one thing more. Thou 
hast broken thro' the pales 
Of privilege, crowning thy young son 

by York, 
London and Salisbury — not Canter- 
bury. 
Henry. York crown'd the Conqueror 

— not Canterbury. 
Becket. There was no Canterbury in 

William's time. 
Henry. But Hereford, you know, 

crown'd the first Henry. 
Becket. But Anselm crown'd this 

Henry o'er again. 
Henry. And thou shalt crown my 

Henry o'er again. 
Becket. And is it then with thy good- 
will that I 
Proceed against thine evil councillors, 
And hurl the dread ban of the Church 

on those 
Who made the second mitre play the 

first, 
And acted me ? 

Henry. Well, well, then — have thy 
way ! 
It may be they were evil councillors. 



878 



BECKET. 



What more, my lord Archbishop 1 

What more, Thomas ? 
I make thee full amends. Say all 

thy say, 
But blaze not out before the French- 
men here. 
Becket. More ? Nothing, so thy 

promise be thy deed. 
Henry {holding out his hand). Give 
me thy hand. My Lords of 
France and England, 
My friend of Canterbury and my- 
self 
Are now once more at perfect amity. 
Unkingly should I be, and most un- 

knightly, 
Not striving still, however much in 

vain, 
To rival him in Christian charity. 
Herbert. All praise to Heaven, and 

sweet St. Magdalen ! 
Henry. And so farewell until we 

meet in England. 
Becket. I fear, my liege, we may not 

meet in England. 
Henry. How, do you make me a 

traitor 1 
Becket. No, indeed ! 

That be far from thee. 

Henry. Come, stay with us, then, 
Before you part for England. 

Becket. I am bound 

For that one hour to stay with good 

King Louis, 
Who helpt me when none else. 

Herbert. He said thy life 

Was not one hour's worth in England 

save 
King Henry gave thee first the kiss of 
peace. 
Henry. He said so ? Louis, did he? 
look you, Herbert. 
When I was in mine anger with King 

Louis, i 
I sware I would not give the kiss of 

peace, 
Not on French ground, nor any ground 

but English, 
Where his cathedral stands. Mine 

old friend, Thomas, 
I would there were that perfect trust 
between us, 



That health of heart, once ours, ere 

Pope or King 
Had come between us ! Even now — 

who knows 1 — 
I might deliver all things to thy hand — 
If . . . but I say no more . . . fare- 
well, my lord. 
Becket. Farewell, my liege ! 

[Exit Henry, then the Barons and 

Bishops. 

Walter Map. There again! when the 

full fruit of the royal promise might 

have dropt into thy mouth hadst thou 

but opened it to thank him. 

Becket. He fenced his royal promise 

with an if. 
Walter Map. And is the King's if too 
high a stile for your lordship to over- 
step and come at all things in the next 
field? 

Becket. Ay, if this if be like the 

Devil's " if 

Thou wilt fall down and worship me." 

Herbert. Oh, Thomas, 

I could fall down and worship thee, 

my Thomas, 
For thou hast trodden this wine-press 
alone. 
Becket. Nay, of the people there are 

many with me. 
Walter Map. I am not altogether 
with you, my lord, tho' I am none of 
those that would raise a storm between 
you, lest ye should draw together like 
two ships in a calm. You wrong the 
King: he meant what he said to-day. 
Who shall vouch for his to-morrows 1 
One word further. Doth not the few- 
ness of anything make the fulness of 
it in estimation 7 Is not virtue prized 
mainly for its rarity and great base- 
ness loathed as an exception : for were 
all, my lord, as noble as yourself, who 
would look up to you ? and were all 
as base as — who shall I say — Fitzurse 
and his following — who would look 
down upon them ? My lord, you have 
put so many of the King's household 
out of communion, that they begin to 
smile at it. 

Becket. At their peril, at their 
peril 



BECKET. 



879 



Walter Map. — For tho' the drop 
may hollow out the dead stone, doth 
not the living skin thicken .against 
perpetual whippings ? This is the 
second grain of good counsel I ever 
proffered thee, and so cannot suffer 
by the rule of frequency. Have I 
sown it in salt ? I trust not, for be- 
fore God I promise you the King- 
hath many more wolves than he can 
tame in his woods of England, and if 
it suit their purpose to howl for the 
King, and you still move against him, 
you may have no less than to die for 
it ; but God and his free wind grant 
your lordship a happy home-return 
and the King's kiss of peace in Kent. 
Farewell ! I must follow the King. 

[Exit. 
Herbert. Ay, and I warrant the 

customs. Did the King 
Speak of the customs 1 

Becket. No ! — to die for it — 

I live to die for it, I die to live for it. 
The State will die, the Church can 

never die. 
The King's not like to die for that 

which dies; 
But I must die for that which never 

dies. 
It will be so — my visions in the 

Lord : 
It must be so, my friend ! the wolves 

of England 
Must murder her one shepherd, that 

the sheep 
May feed in peace. False figure, Map 

would say. 
Earth's falses are heaven's truths. 

And when my voice 
Is martyr'd mute, and this man dis- 
appears, 
That perfect trust may come again 

between us, 
And there, there, there, not here I 

shall rejoice 
To find my stray sheep back within 

the fold. 
The crowd are scattering, let us move 



away 



And thence to England. 



[Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. — The Outskirts of the 
Bower. 

Geoffrey (coming out of the wood). 
Light again! light again! Margery? 
no, that's a finer thing there. How 
it glitters ! 

Eleanor (entering). Come to me,lrttle 
one. How earnest thou hither ? 

Geoffrey. On my legs. 

Eleanor. And mighty pretty legs 
too. Thou art the prettiest child I 
ever saw. Wilt thou love me? 

Geoffrey. No; I only love mother. 

Eleanor. Ay; and who is thy mother ' 

Geoffrey. They call her But 

she lives secret, you see. 

Eleanor. Why ? 

Geoffrey. Don't know why. 

Eleanor. Ay, but some one comes 
to see her now and then. Who is he ? 

Geoffrey. Can't tell. 

Eleanor. What does she call him ? 

Geoffrey. My liege. 

Eleanor. Pretty one, how earnest 
thou ? 

Geoffrey. There was a bit of yellow 
silk here and there, and it looked 
pretty like a glowworm, and I thought 
if I followed it I should find the fairies. 

Eleanor. I am the fairy, pretty one, 
a good fairy to thy mother. Take me 
to her. 

Geoffrey. There are good fairies 
and bad fairies, and sometimes she 
cries, and can't sleep sound o' nights 
because of the bad fairies. 

Eleanor. She shall cry no more; 
she shall sleep sound enough if thou 
wilt take me to her. I am her good 
fairy. 

Geoffrey. But you don't look like a 
good fairy. Mother does. You are 
not pretty, like mother. 

Eleanor. We can't all of us be as 
pretty as thou art — (aside) little bas- 
tard. Come, here is a golden chain I 
will give thee if thou wilt lead me to 
thy mother. 

Geoffrey. No — no gold. Mother 



BECKET. 



says gold spoils all. Love is the only 
gold. 

Eleanor. I love thy mother, my 
pretty boy. Show me where thou 
earnest out of the wood. 

Geoffrey. By this tree ; but I don't 
know if I can find the way back again. 

Eleanor. Where's the warder 1 

Geoffrey. Very bad. Somebody 
struck him. 

Eleanor. Ay ? who was that ? 

Geoffrey. Can't tell. But I heard 
say he had had a stroke, or you'd 
have heard his horn before now. 
Come along, then; we shall see the 
silk here and there, and I want my 
supper. [Exeunt. 

SCENE II. — Rosamund's Bower. 

Bosamund. The boy so late ; pray 
God, he be not lost. 

I sent this Margery, and she comes 
not back ; 

I sent another, and she comes not 
back. 

I go myself — so many alleys, cross- 
ings, 

l J aths, avenues — nay, if I lost him, 
now 

The folds have fallen from the mys- 
tery, 

And left all naked, I were lost indeed. 

Enter Geoffrey and Eleanor. 

Geoffrey, the pain thou hast put me to ! 
[Seeing Eleanor. 
Ha, you! 
How came you hither 1 

Eleanor. Your own child brought 

me hither ! 
Geoffrey. You said you couldn't 
crust Margery, and I watched her and 
followed her into the woods, and I lost 
her and went on and on till I found 
the light and the lady, and she says 
she can make you sleep o' nights. 
Bosamund. How dared you 1 Know 
you not this bower is secret, 
Of and belonging to the King of Eng- 
land, 



More sacred than his forests for the 
chase ? 

Nay, nay, Heaven help you ; get you 
hence in haste 

Lest worse befall you. 

Eleanor. Child, I am mine own self 

Of andbelongingtotheKing. The King 

Hath divers ofs and ons, ofs and be- 
longings, 

Almost as many as your true Mussul- 
man — 

Belongings, paramours, whom it 
pleases him 

To call his wives ; but so it chances, 
child, 

That I am his main paramour, his 
sultana. 

But since the fondest pair of doves 
will jar, 

Ev'n in a cage of gold, we had words 
of late, 

And thereupon he call'd my children 
bastards. 

Do you believe that you are married 
to him ? 
Rosamund. I should believe it.. 
Eleanor. You must not believe it, 

Because I have a wholesome medicine 
here 

Puts that belief asleep. Your answer, 
beauty ! 

Do you believe that you are marrried 
to him 1 
Rosamund. Geoffrey, my boy, I 

saw the ball you lost in the fork of 

the great willow over the brook. Go. 

See that you do not fall in. Go. 
Geoffrey. And leave you alone with 

the good fairy. She calls you beauty, 

but I don't like her looks. Well, you 

bid me go, and I'll have my ball any- 
how. Shall I find you asleep when I 

come back ? 

Rosamund. Go. [Exit Geoffrey. 

Eleanor. He is easily found again. 
Do you believe it ? 

I pray you then to take my sleeping- 
draught ; 

But if you should not care to take it 
— see ! [Draws a dagger. 

What ! have I scared the red rose 
from your face 



BRCKET. 



881 



Into your heart. But this will find it 

there, 
And dig it from the root for ever. 
Rosamund. Help! help! 

Eleanor. They say that walls have 

ears; but these, it seems, 
Have none ! and I have none — to 

pity thee. 
Rosamund. I do beseech you — my 

child is so young, 
So backward too ; I cannot leave him 

vet. 
I am not so hapnv I could not die my- 
self, 
But the child is so young. You have 

children — his ; 
And mine is the King's child ; so, if 

you love him — 
Nay, if you love him, there is great 

wrong done 
Somehow ; but if you do not — there 

are those 
Who say you do not love him — let 

me go 
With my young boy, and I will hide 

my face, 
Blacken and gipsyfy it ; none shall 

know me ; 
The King shall never hear of me 

again, 
But I will beg my bread along the 

world 
With my young boy, and God will be 

our guide. 
1 never meant you harm in any way. 
See, I can say no more. 

Eleanor. Will you not say you are not 

married to him ? 
Rosamund. Ay, Madam, I can say 

it, if you will. 
Eleanor. Then is thy pretty boy a 

bastard ? 
Rosamund. No. 
Eleanor. And thou thyself a proven 

wanton ? 
Rosamund. No. 
I am none such. I never loved but 

one. 
1 have heard of such that range from 

love to love, 
Like the wild beast — if you can call 

it love. 



I have heard of such — yea, even 

among those 
Who sit on thrones — I never saw any 

such, 
Never knew any such, and howsoever 
You do misname me, match'd with any 

such, 
I am snow to mud. 

Eleanor. The more the pity then 
That thy true home — the heavens — 

cry out for thee 
Who art too pure for earth. 

Enter Fitzurse. 
Fitznr.se. Give her to me. 
Eleanor. The Judas-lover of out 
passion-play 
Hath track'd us hither. 
Fitzurse. Well, why not ? I follow'd 
! You and the child : he babbled all the 
way. 
Give her to me to make my honey- 
moon. 
Eleanor. Ay, as the bears love honey. 
Could you keep her 
Indungeon'd from one whisper of the 

wind, 
Dark even from a side glance of the 

moon, 
And oublietted in the centre — No ! 
I follow out my hate and thy revenge. 
Fitzurse. You bade me take revenge 
another way — 
To bring her to the dust. . . . Come 

with me, love, 
And I will love thee. . . . Madam, 

let her live. 
I have a far-off burrow where the King 
Would miss her and for ever. 

Eleanor. How sayest thou, sweet- 
heart ? 
Wilt thou go with him 1 he will marry 
thee. 
Rosamund. Give me the poison ; 
set me free of him ! 

[Eleanor offers the vial, 
No, no ! I will not have it. 

Eleanor. Then this other, 

The wiser choice, because my sleep- 
ing-draught 
May bloat thy beauty out of shape, 
and make 



882 



BECKET. 



Thy body loathsome even to thy child ; 
While this but leaves thee with a bro- 
ken heart, 
A doll-face blanch'd and bloodless, 

over which 
If pretty Geoffrey do not break his 

own, 
It must be broken for him. 

Rosamund. O I see now 

Your purpose is to fright me — a 

troubadour 
You play with words. You had 

never used so many, 
Not if you meant it, I am sure. The 

child . . . 
No . . . mercy ! No ! [Kneels. 

Eleanor. Play ! . . . that bosom 

never 
Heaved under the King's hand with 

such true passion 
As at this loveless knife that stirs the 

riot, 
Which it will quench in blood ! Slave, 

if he love thee, 
Thy life is worth the wrestle for it : 

arise, 
And dash thyself against me that I 

may slay thee ! 
The worm ! shall I let her go 1 But 

ha ! what's here ? 
By very God, the cross I gave the 

King ! 
His village darling in some lewd 

caress 
Has wheedled it off the King's neck 

to her own. 
By thy leave, beauty. Ay, the same ! 

I warrant 
Thou hast sworn on this my cross a 

hundred times 
Never to leave him — and that merits 

death, 
False oath on holy cross — for thou 

must leave him 
To-day, but not quite yet. My good 

Fitzurse, 
The running down the chase is kind- 
lier sport 
Ev'n than the death. Who knows 

but that thy lover 
May plead so pitifully, that I may 

spare thee ? 



Come hither, man ; stand there. ( To 

Rosamund.) Take thy one 

chance ; 
Catch at the last straw. Kneel to 

thy lord Fitzurse ; 
Crouch even because thou hatesthim; 

fawn upon him 
For thy life and thy son's. 

Rosamund (rising). I am a Clifford, 
My son a Clifford and Plantagenet. 
I am to die then, tho' there stand 

beside thee 
One who might grapple with thy dag- 
ger, if he 
Had aught of man, or thou of 

woman ; or I 
Would bow to such a baseness as 

would make me 
Most worthy of it : both of us will die, 
And I will fly with my sweet boy to 

heaven, 
And shriek to all the saints among 

the stars : 
" Eleanor of Aquitaine, Eleanor of 

England ! 
Murder'd by that adulteress Eleanor, 
Whose doings are a horror to the east, 
A hissing in the west ! " Have we 

not heard 
Raymond of Poitou, thine own uncle 

— nay, 
Geoffrey Plantagenet, thine own hus 

band's father — 
Nay, ev'n the accursed heathen Sal- 

addeen 

Strike ! 

I challenge thee to meet me before 

God. 
Answer me there. 

Eleanor Raising the dagger). This 

in thy bosom, fool, 
And after in thy bastard's ! 

Enter Becket from behind. Catches 
hold of her arm. 
Becket. Murderess ! 

[The dagger falls ; they stare at one an- 
other After a pause. 
Eleanor. My lord, we know you 
proud of your fine hand, 
But having now admired it long 
enough, 



BECKET. 



883 



We find that it is mightier than it 

seems — 
At least mine own is frailer : you are 

laming it. 
Becket. And lamed and maim'd to 

dislocation, better 
Than raised to take a life which 

Henry bade me 
Guard from the stroke that dooms 

thee after death 
To wail in deathless flame. 

Eleanor. Nor you, nor I 

Have now to learn, my lord, that our 

good Henry 
Says many a thing in sudden heats, 

which he 
Gainsays by next sunrising — often 

ready 
To tear himself for having said as 

much. 

My lord, Fitzurse 

Becket. He too ! what dost thou 

here ? 
Dares the bear slouch into the lion's 

den? 
One downward plunge of his paw 

woul 1 rend away 
Eyesight and manhood, life itself, 

from thee. 
Go, lest I blast thee with anathema, 
And make thee a world's horror. 

Fitzurse. My lord, I shall 

Remember this. 

Becket. I do remember thee ; 

Lest I remember thee to the lion, go. 

[Exit Fitzurse. 

Take up your dagger; put it in the 

sheath. 
Eleanor. Might not your courtesy 

stoop to hand it me ? 
But crowns must bow when mitres sit 

so high. 
Well — well — too costly to be left or 

lost. [Picks up the dagger. 

I had it from an Arab soldan, who, 
When I was there in Antioch, mar- 

velPd at 
Our unfamiliar beauties of the west; 
But wonder'd more at my much con- 
stancy 
To the monk-king, Louis, our former 

burthen, 



From whom, as being too kin, you 

know, my lord, 
God's grace and Holy Church deliver'd 

us. 
I think, time given, I could have talk'd 

him out of 
His ten wives into one. Look at the 

hilt. 
What excellent workmanship. In our 

poor west 
We cannot do it so well. . 

Becket. We can do worse. 

Madam, I saw your dagger at her 

throat ; 
I heard your savage cry. 

Eleanor. Well acted, was it ? 

A comedy meant to seem a tragedy — 
A feint, a farce. My honest lord, you 

are known 
Thro' all the courts of Christendom as 

one 
That mars a cause with over-violence. 
You have wrong'd Fitzurse. I speak 

not of myself. 
We thought to scare this minion of the 

King 
Back from her churchless commerce 

with the King 
To the fond arms of her first love, 

Fitzurse, 
Who swore to marry her. You have 

spoilt the farce. 
My savage cry ? Why, she — she — 

when I strove 
To work against her license for her 

good, 
Bark'd out at me such monstrous 

charges, that 
The King himself, for love of his own 

sons, 
If hearing, would have spurn'd her; 

whereupon 
I menaced her with this, as when we 

threaten 
A yelper with a stick. Nay, I deny 

not 
That I was somewhat anger'd. Do yon 

hear me ? 
Believe or no, I care not. You have 

lost 
The ear of the King. I have it. . . . 

My lord Paramount, 



884 



BECKET. 



Our great High-priest, will not your 

Holiness 
Vouchsafe a gracious answer to your 

Queen % 
Becket. Rosamund hath not an- 

swer'd you one word ; 
Madam, I will not answer you one 

word. 
Daughter, the world hath trick'd thee. 

Leave it, daughter; 
Come thou with me to Godstow nun- 
nery, 
And live what may be left thee of a 

life 
Saved as by miracle alone with Him 
Who gave it. 

Re-enter Geoffrey. 
Geoffrey. Mother, you told me a 

great fib : it wasn't in the willow. 
Becket. Follow us, my son, and we 

will find it for thee — 
Or something manlier. 

[Exeunt Becket, Rosamund, and 

Geoffrey. 
Eleanor. The world hath trick'd her 

— that's the King; if so, 
There was the farce, the feint — not 

mine. And yet 
I am all but sure my dagger was a 

feint 
Till the worm turn'd — not life shot 

up in blood, 
But death drawn in ; — (looking at the 

vial) this was no feint then ? no. 
But can I swear to that, had she but 

given 
Plain answer to plain query ? nay, 

methinks 
Had she but bow'd herself to meet the 

wave 
Of humiliation, worshipt whom she 

loathed, 
I should have let her be, scorn'd her 

too much 
To harm her. Henry — Becket tells 

him this — 
To take my life might lose him 

Aquitaine. 
Too politic for that. Imprison me 1 
No, for it came to nothing — only a 

feint. 



Did she not tell me I was playing on 

her? 
I'll swear to mine own self it was a 

feint. 
Why should I swear, Eleanor, who 

am, or was, 
A sovereign power 1 The King plucks 

out their eyes 
Who anger him, and shall not I, the 

Queen, 
Tear out her heart — kill, kill with 

knife or venom 
One of his slanderous harlots 1 "None 

of such 1 " 
I love her none the more. Tut, the 

chance gone, 
She lives — but not for him ; one point 

is gain'd. 
I, that thro' the Pope divorced King 

Louis, 
Scorninghis monkery, — I that wedded 

Henry, 
Honoring his manhood — will he not 

mock at me 
The jealous fool balk'd of her will — 

with him ? 
But he and he must never meet again. 
Reginald Fitzurse ! 

Re-enter Fitzurse. 
Fitzurse. Here, Madam, at your 

pleasure. 
Eleanor. My pleasure is to have a 
man about me. 
Why did you slink away so like a 
cur 1 
Fitzurse. Madam, I am as much 
man as the King. 
Madam, I fear Church-censures like 
your King. 
Eleanor. He grovels to the Church 
when he's black-blooded, 
But kinglike fought the proud arch- 
bishop, — kinglike 
Defied the Pope, and, like his kingly 

sires, 
The Normans, striving still to break or 

bind 
The spiritual giant with our island 

laws 
And customs, made me for the moment 
proud 



BECKET. 



885 



Ev'n of that stale Church-bond which 

link'd me with him 
To bear him kingly sons. I am not 

so sure 
But that I love him still. Thou as 

much man ! 
No more of that ; we will to France 

and be 
Beforehand with the King, and brew 

from out 
This Godstow-Becket intermeddling 

such 
A strong hate-philtre as may madden 

him — madden 
Against his priest beyondall hellebore. 



ACT V. 

SCENE I. — Castle in Normandy. 
King's Chamber. 

Henry, Roger or York, Foliot, 
Jocelyn of Salisbury. 

Roger of York. Nay, nay, my liege, 

He rides abroad with armed followers, 

Hath broken all his promises to thy- 
self, 

Cursed and anathematized us right 
and left, 

Stirr'd up a party there against your 
son — 
Henry. Roger of York, you always 
hated him, 

Even when vou both were boys at 
Theobald's. 
Roger of York. I always hated 
boundless arrogance. 

In mine own cause I strove against 
him there, 

And in thy cause I strive against him 
now. 
Henry. I cannot think he moves 
against my son, 

Knowing right well with what a ten- 
derness 

He loved my son. 

Roger of York. Before you made 
him king. 

But Becket ever moves against a king. 

The Church is all — the crime to be a 
king. 



We trust your Royal Grace, lord of 
more land 

Than any crown in Europe, will not 
yield 

To lay your neck beneath your citi- 
zens' heel. 
Henry. Not to a Gregory of my 

throning ! No. 
Foliot. My royal liege, in aiming at 
your love, 

It may be sometimes I have over- 
shot 

My duties to our Holy Mother Church, 

Tho' all the world allows I fall no 
inch 

Behind this Becket, rather go beyond 

In scourgings, macerations, mortify- 
ings, 

Fasts, disciplines that clear the spir- 
itual eye, 

And break the soul from earth. Let 
all that be. 

I boast not : but you know thro' all 
this quarrel 

I still have cleaved to the crown, in 
hope the crown 

Would cleave to me that but obey'd 
the crown, 

Crowning your son ; for which our 
loyal service, 

And since we likewise swore to obey 
the customs, 

York and myself, and our good Salis- 
bury here, 

Are push'd from out communion of 
the Church. 
Jocelyn of Salisbury. Becket hath 
trodden on us like worms, my 
liege ; 

Trodden one half dead ; one half, but 
half-alive, 

Cries to the King. 

Henri/ (aside). Take care o' thyself, 

King. 
Jocelyn of Salisbury. Being so crush'd 
and so humiliated 

We scarcely dare to bless the food we 
eat 

Because of Becket. 

Henry. What would ye have me do? 

¥loger of York. Summon your 

barons ; take their counsel : yet 



886 



BECKET. 



I know — could swear — as long as 

Becket breathes, 
Your Grace will never have one quiet 

hour. 
Henry. What? ... Ay ... but 

pray you do not work upon 

me. 
I see your drift ... it may be so . . 

and yet 
You know me easily anger'd. Will 

you hence ? 
He shall absolve you . . . you shall 

have redress. 
I have a dizzying headache. Let me 

rest. 
I'll call you by and by. 

[Exeunt Roger of York, Foliot, 

and Jocelyn of Salisbury. 
Would he were dead ! I have lost all 

love for him. 
If God would take him in some sud- 
den way — 
Would he were dead. [Lies down. 

Page (entering). My liege, the 

Queen of England. 
Henry. God's eyes ! [Staining up. 

Enter Eleanor. 
Eleanor. Of England? Say of 

Aquitaine. 
I am no Queen of England. I had 

dream'd 
I was the bride of England, and 

a queen. 
Henry. And, — while you dream'd 

you were the bride of Eng- 
land, — 
Stirring her baby-king against me ? 

ha! 
Eleanor. The brideless Becket is 

thy king and mine : 
I will go live and die in Aquitaine. 
Henry. Except I clap thee into 

prison here, 
Lest thou shouldst play the wanton 

there again. 
Ha, you of Aquitaine ! you of 

Aquitaine ! 
You were but Aquitaine to Louis — 

no wife ; 
You are only Aquitaine to me* — no 

wife. 



Eleanor. And why, my lord, should 

I be wife to one 
That only wedded me for Aquitaine ? 
Yet this no wife — her six and thirty 

sail 
Of Provence blew you to your Eng- 
lish throne ; 
And this no wife has borne you four 

brave sons, 
And one of them at least is like to 

prove 
Bigger in our small world than thou 

art. 
Henry. Ay — 

Richard, if he be mine — I hope him 

mine. 
But thou art like enough to make him 

thine. 
Eleanor. Becket is like enough to 

make all his. 
Henry. Methought I had recover'd 

of the Becket, 
That all was planed and bevell'd 

smooth again, 
Save from some hateful cantrip of 

thine own. 
Eleanor. I will go live and die in 

Aquitaine. 
I dream'd I was the consort of a king, 
Not one whose back his priest has 

broken. 
Henry. What ! 

Is the end come ? You, will you crown 

my foe 
My victor in mid-battle ? I will be 
Sole master of my house. The end is 

mine. 
What game, what juggle, what devilry 

are you playing ? 
Why do you thrust this Becket on me 

again ? 
Eleanor. Why 1 for I am true wife, 

and have my fears 
Lest Becket thrust you even from 

your throne. 
Do you know this cross, my liege ? 
Henry (turning his head). Away! 

Not I. 
Eleanor. Not ev'n the central dia- 
mond, worth, I think, 
Half of the Antioch whence I had it. 
Henry. That ? 



BECKET. 



887 



Ehnnor. I gave it to you. find you 

your paramour; 
She sends it back, as being dead to 

earth, 
So dead henceforth to you. 

Henry. Dead ! you have murder'd 

her, 
Found out her secret bower and mur- 
der'd her. 
Eleanor. Your Becket knew the 

secret of your bower. 
Henry [calling out). Ho there ! thy 

rest of life is hopeless prison. 
Eleanor. And what would my own 

Aquitaine say to that ? 
First, free thy captive from her hope- 
less prison. 
Henry. O devil, can I free her from 

the grave ? 
Eleanor. You are too tragic : both 

of us are players 
In such a comedy as our court of 

Provence 
Had laugh'd at. That's a delicate 

Latin lay 
Of Walter Map : the lady holds the 

cleric- 
Lovelier than any soldier, his poor 

tonsure 
A crown of Empire. Will you have 

it again ? 
[Offering the cross. He dashes it 

down. 
St. Cupid, that is too irreverent. 
Then mine once more. (Puts it on.) 

Your cleric hath your lady. 
Nay, what uncomely faces, could he 

see you ! 
Foam at the mouth because King 

Thomas, lord 
Not only of your vassals but 

amours, 
Thro' chastest honor of the Decalogue 
Hath used the full authority of his 

Church 
To put her into Godstow nunnery. 
Henry. To put her into Godstow 

nunnery ! 
He dared not — liar! yet, yet I 

remember — 
I do remember. 
He bade me put her into a nunnery — 



Into Godstow, into Hellstow, Devil- 

stow ! 
The Church ! the Church ! 
God's eyes ! I would the Church 
were down in hell ! [Exit. 

Eleanor. Aha ! 

Enter the four Knights. 
Fitzurse. What made the King cry 

out so furiously 1 
Eleanor. Our Becket, who will not 

absolve the Bishops. 
I think ye four have cause to love 

this Becket, 
Fitzurse. I hate him for his inso- 
lence to all. 
De Tracy. And I for his insolence 

to thee. 
De Brito. I hate him for I hate 

him is my reason, 
And yet I hate him for a hypocrite. 
De Morville. I do not love him, for 

he did his best 
To break the barons, and now braves 

the King. 
Eleanor. Strike, then, at once, the 

King would have him — See ! 

Re-enter Henry. 

Henry. No man to love me, honor 
me, obey me ! 

Sluggards and fools ! 

The slave that eat my bread has 
kick'd his King ! 

The dog I cramm'd with dainties wor- 
ried me ! 

The fellow that on a lame jade came 
to court, 

A ragged cloak for saddle — he, he 
he, 

To shake my throne, to push into m,y 
chamber — 

My bed, where ev'n the slave is pri- 
vate — he — 

I'll have her out again, he shall ab- 
solve 

The bishops — they but did my will 

— not you — 

Sluggards and fools, why do you stand 

and stare 1 
You are no king's men — you — you 

— you are Becket's men. 



888 



BECKET. 



Down with King Henry ! up with the 

Archbishop ! 
Will no man free me from this pesti- 
lent priest 1 [Exit. 
[ The Knights draw their swords. 
Eleanor. Are ye king's men ? I am 

king's woman, I. 
The Knights. King's men! King's 



SCENE II. 

A Room in Canterbury Monas- 
tery. 

Becket and John of Salisbury. 

Becket. York said so ? 
John of Salisbury. Yes : a man may 
take good counsel 
Ev'n from his foe. 

BeckeU York will say anything. 
What is he saying now \ gone to the 

King 
And taken our anathema with him. 

York! 

Can the King de-anathematize this 

York 1 ? 

John of Salisbury. Thomas, I would 

thou hadst return'd to England, 

Like some wise prince of this world 

from his wars, 
With more of olive-branch and am- 
nesty 
For foes at home — thou hast raised 
the world against thee. 
Becket. Why, John, my kingdom is 

not of this world. 
John of Salisbury. If it were more 
of this world it might be 
More of the next. A policy of wise 

pardon 
Wins here as well as there. To bless 

thine enemies 

Becket. Ay, mine, not Heaven's. 
John of Salisbury. And may there 
not be something 
Of this world's leaven in thee too, 

when crying 
Qn Holy Church to thunder out her 
rights 



And thine own wrong so pitilessly 1 

Ah, Thomas, 
The lightnings that we think are only 

Heaven's 
Flash sometimes out of earth against 

the heavens. 
The soldier, when he lets his whole 

self go 
Lost in the common good, the com- 
mon wrong, 
Strikes truest ev'n for his own self. 

I crave 
Thy pardon — I have still thy leave 

to speak. 
Thou hast waged God's war against 

the King ; and yet 
We are self-uncertain creatures, and 

we may, 
Yea, even when we know not, mix our 

spites 
And private hates with our defence of 

Heaven. 



Enter Edward Grim. 

Becket. Thou art but yesterday 
from Cambridge, Grim ; 
What say ye there of Becket 1 

Grim. I believe him 

The bravest in our roll of Primates 

down 
From Austin — there are some — for 
there are men 

Ofcanker'd judgment every where 

Becket. Who hold 

With York, with York against me. 

Grim. Well, my lord, 

A stranger monk desires access to you. 

Becket. York against Canterbury, 

York against God ! 

I am open to him. [Exit Grim. 

Enter Rosamund as a Monk. 

Rosamund. Can I speak with you 
Alone, my father ? 

Becket. Come you to confess ? 
Rosamund. Not now. 
Becket. Then speak; this is my 
other self, 
Who like my conscience never lets 
me be. 



BECKET. 



S89 



Rosamund (throwing back the coicl). 

I know him ; our good John of 

Salisbury. 
Becket. Breaking already from thy 

novitiate 
To plunge into this bitter world 

again — 
These wells of Marah. I am grieved, 

my daughter. 
I thought that I had made a peace for 

thee. 
Rosamund. Small peace was mine 

in my novitiate, father. 
Thro' all closed doors a dreadful 

whisper crept 
That thou wouldst excommunicate the 

King. 
I could not eat, sleep, pray : I had 

with me 
The monk's disguise thou gavest me 

for my bower : 
1 think our Abbess knew it and 

allow'd it. 
I fled, and found thy name a charm to 

get me 
Food, roof, and rest. I met a robber 

once, 
1 told him I was bound to see the 

Archbishop ; 
• Pass on," he said, and in thy name 

I pass'd 
From house to house. In one a son 

stone-blind 
Sat by his mother's hearth : he had 

gone too far 
Into the King's own woods ; and the 

poor mother. 
Soon as she learnt 1 was a friend of 

thine, 
Cried out against the cruelty of the 

King. 
1 said it was the King's courts, not 

the King ; 
But she would not believe me, and 

she wish'd 
The Church were King: she had seen 

the Archbishop once, 
So mild, so kind. The people love 

thee, father. 
Becket. Alas! when I was Chancel- 
lor to the King, 
I fear 1 was as cruel as the King. 



Rosamund. Cruel? Oh, no — it is 
the law, not he ; 
The customs of the realm. 

Becket. The customs ! customs ! 
Rosamund. My lord, you have not 
excommunicated him ? 
Oh, if you have, absolve him! 

Becket. Daughter, daughter, 

Deal not with things you know 
not. 
Rosamund. I know him. 

Then you have done it, and I call you 
cruel. 
John of Salisbury. No, daughter, 
you mistake our good Arch- 
bishop ; 
For once in France the King had been 

so harsh, 
He thought to excommunicate him — 

Thomas, 
You could not — old affection mas- 

ter'd you, 
You falter'd into tears. 

Rosamund. God bless him for it. 
Becket. Nay, make me not a 
woman, John of Salisbury, 
Nor make me traitor to my holy 

office. 
Did not a man's voice ring along the 

aisle, 
"The King is sick and almost unto 

death." 
How could I excommunicate him 
then ? 
Rosamund. And wilt thou excom- 
municate him now 1 
Becket. Daughter, my time is short, 
I shall not do it. 
And were it longer — well — I should 
not do it. 
Rosamund. Thanks in this life, and 

in the life to come. 
Becket. Get thee back to thy nun- 
nery with all haste ; 
Let this be thy last trespass. But 

one question — 
How fares thy pretty boy, the little 

Geoffrey ? 
No fever, cough, croup, sickness 2 

Rosamund. No, but saved 

From all that by our solitude. The 
plagues 



890 



BECKET. 



That smite the city spare the soli- 
tudes. 
Becket. God save him from all 
sickness of the soul ! 
Thee too, thy solitude among thy 

nuns, 
May that save thee ! Doth he re- 
member me ? 
Rosamund. I warrant him. 
Becket. He is marvellously like 

thee. 
Rosamund. Liker the King. 
Becket. No, daughter. 

Rosamund. Ay, but wait 

Till his nose rises ; he will be very 
king. 
Becket. Ev'n so : but think not of 

the King : farewell ! 
Rosamund. My lord, the city is 

full of armed men. 
Becket. Ev'n so : farewell ! 
Rosamund. I will but pass to ves- 
pers, 
And breathe one prayer for my liege- 
lord the King, 
His child and mine own soul, and so 
return. 
Becket. Pray for me too : much 
need of prayer have I. 

[Rosamund kneels and goes. 
Dan John, how much we lose, we celi- 
bates, 
Lacking the love of woman and of 
child. 
John of Salisbury. More gain than 
loss ; for of your wives you 
shall 
Find one a slut whose fairest linen 

seems 
Foul as her dust-cloth, if she used it 

— one 
So charged with tongue, that every 

thread of thought 
Is broken ere it joins — a shrew to 

boot, 
Whose evil song far on into the night 
Thrills to the topmost tile — no hope 

but death ; 
One slow, fat, white, a burthen of the 

hearth ; 
And one that being thwarted ever 
swoons 



And weeps herself into the place of 

power ; 
And one an uxor pauperis Ibyci. 
So rare the household honeymaking 

bee, 
Man's help ! but we, we have the 

Blessed Virgin 
For worship, and our Mother Church 

for bride ; 
And all the souls we saved and 

father'd here 
Will greet us as our babes in Paradise. 
What noise was that ? she told us of 

arm'd men 
Here in the city. Will you not with- 
draw 1 
Becket. I once was out with Henry 

in the days 
When Henry loved me, and we came 

upon 
A wild-fowl sitting on her nest, so still 
I reach'd my hand and touch'd ; she 

did not stir ; 
The snow had frozen round her, and 

she sat 
Stone-dead upon a heap of ice-cold 

eggs. 
Look ! how this love, this mother, 

runs thro' all 
The . world God made — even the 

beast — the bird ! 
John of Salisbury. Ay, still a lover 

of the beast and bird ? 
But these arm'd men — will you not 

hide yourself 1 
Perchance the fierce De Brocs from 

Saltwood Castle, 
To assail our Holy Mother lest she 

brood 
Too long o'er this hard egg, the world, 

and send 
Her whole heart's heat into it, till it 

break 
Into young angels. Pray you, hide 

yourself. 
Becket. There was a little fair- 

hair'd Norman maid 
Lived in my mother's house : if Rosa- 
mund is 
The world's rose, as her name imports 

her — she 
Was the world's lily. 



BECKET. 



891 



John of Salisbury. Ay. and what of 

her ? 
Becket. She died of leprosy. 
John of Salisbury. I know not why 
You call these old things back again, 
my lord. 
Becket. The drowning man, they 
say, remembers all 
The chances of his life, just ere he 
dies. 
John of Salisbury. Ay — 'but these 
arm'd men — will you drown 
yourself'? 
He loses half the meed of martyr- 
dom 
Who will be martyr when he might 
escape. 
Becket. What day of the week? 

Tuesday ? 
John of Salisbury. Tuesday, my 

lord. 
Becket. On a Tuesday was I born, 
and on a Tuesday 
Baptized ; and on a Tuesday did I fly 
Forth from Northampton ; on a Tues- 
day pass'd 
From England into bitter banish- 
ment ; 
On a Tuesday at Pontigny came to 

me 
The ghostly warning of my martyr- 
dom ; 
On a Tuesday from mine exile I re- 
turn'd, 

And on a Tuesday 

[Tracy enters, then Fitzurse, De 
Brito, and De Morville. Monks 
following. 

— on a Tuesday Tracy ! 

[A long silence, broken by Fitzurse 
saying, contemptuously, 
God help thee ! 

John of Salisbury (aside). How the 
good Archbishop reddens ! 
He never yet could brook the note of 
scorn . 
Fitzurse. My lord, we bring a mes- 
sage from the King 
Beyond the water; will you lave it 

alone, 
Or with these listeners near you ? 
Becket. As you will. 



Fitzurse. Nay, as you will. 
Becket. Nay, as you will. 

John of Salisbury. Why then 

Better perhaps to speak with them 

apart. 
Let us withdraw. 

[All go out except the four Knights 
and Becket. 
Fitzurse. We are all alone with 
him. 
Shall I not smite him with hi. own 
cross-staff ? 
De Morville. No, look ! the door is 

open : let him be. 
Fitzurse. The King condemns your 

excommunicating 

Becket. This is no secret, but a 
public matter. 
In here again ! 

[John of Salisbury and Monks 
return. 
Now, sirs, the King's commands ! 
Fitzurse. The King beyond the 
water, thro' our voices, 
Commands you to be dutiful and 

leal 
To your young King on this side of 

the water, 
Not scorn him for the foibles of his 

youth. 
What ! you would make his corona- 
tion void 
By cursing those who crown'd him. 
Out upon you ! 
Becket. Reginald, all men know I 
loved the Prince. 
His father gave him to my care, and I 
Became his second father : he had his 

faults, 
For which I would have laid my own 

life down 
To help him from them, since indeed 

I loved him, 
And love him next after my lord his 

father. 
Rather than dim the splendor of his 

crown 
I fain would treble and quadruple it 
With revenues, realms, and golden 

provinces 
So that were done in equity. 

Fitzurse. You have broken 



892 



BECKET. 



Your bond of peace, your treaty with 
the King — 

Wakening such brawls and loud dis- 
turbances 

In England, that he calls you oversea 

To answer for it in his Norman courts. 
Becket. Prate not of bonds, for 
never, oh, never again 

Shall the waste voice of the bond- 
breaking sea 

Divide me from the mother church of 
England, 

My Canterbury. Loud disturbances ! 

Oh, ay — the bells rang out even to 
deafening, 

Organ and pipe, and dulcimer, chants 
and hymns 

In all the churches, trumpets in the 
halls, 

Sobs, laughter, cries : they spread 
their raiment down 

Before me — would have made my 
pathway flowers, 

Save that it was mid-winter in the 
street, 

But full mid-summer in those honest 
hearts. 
Fitzurse. The King commands you 
to absolve the bishops 

Whom you have excommunicated. 
Becket. I ? 

Not I, the Pope. Ask him for absolu- 
tion. 
Fitzurse. But you advised the Pope. 
Becket. And so I did. 

They have but to submit. 

The Four Knights. The King com- 
mands you. 

We are all King's men. 
Becket. King's men at least should 
know 

That their own King closed with me 
last July 

That I should pass the censures of 
the Church 

On those that crown'd young Henry 
in this realm, 

And trampled on the rights of Can- 
terbury. 
Fitzurse. What! dare you charge 
the King with treachery ? 

He sanction thee to excommunicate 



The prelates whom he chose to crown 
his son ! 
Becket. I spake no word of treach- 
ery, Reginald. 

But for the truth of this I make appeal 

To all the archbishops, bishops, pre- 
lates, barons, 

Monks, knights, five hundred, that 
were there and heard. 

Nay, you yourself were there: you 
heard yourself. 
Fitzurse. I was not there. 
Becket. I saw you there. 

Fitzurse. I was not. 

Becket. You were. I never forget 

anything. 
Fitzurse. He makes the King a 
traitor, me a liar. 

How long shall we forbear him ? 
John of Salisbury (drawing Becket 
aside). my good lord, 

Speak with them privately on this 
hereafter. 

You see they have been revelling, 
and I fear 

Are braced and brazen'd up with 
Christmas wines 

For any murderous brawl. 

Becket. And yet they prate 

Of mine, my brawls, when those, that 
name themselves 

Of the King's part, have broken down 
our barns, 

Wasted our diocese, outraged our ten- 
ants. 

Lifted our produce, driven our clerics 
out — 

Why they, your friends, these ruffians, 
the De Brocs, 

They stood on Dover beach to mur- 
der me, 

They slew my stags in mine own manor 
here, 

Mutilated, poor brute, my sumpter- 
mule, 

Plunder'd the vessel full of Gascon 
wine, 

The old King's present, carried off the 



Kill'd half the crew, dungeon'd the 

other half 
In Pevensey Castle 



BECKET. 



893 



De MorviUe. Why not rather then, 
If this be so, complain to your young 

King, 
Not punish of your own authority ? 
Becket. Mine enemies barr'd all ac- 
cess to the boy. 
They knew he loved me. 
Hugh. Hugh, how proudly you exalt 

your head ! 
Nay, when they seek to overturn our 

rights, 
I ask no leave of king, or mortal 

man, 
To set them straight again. Alone I 

doit. 
Give to the King the things that are 

the King's, 
And those of God to God. 

Fitzurse. Threats ! threats ! 

ye hear him. 
What ! will he excommunicate all the 
world ? 
[The Knights come round Becket. 
De Tracy. He shall not. 
De Brito. Well, as yet 

— I should be grateful — ■ 
He hath not excommunicated me. 
Becket. Because thou was born ex- 
communicate. 
I never spied in thee one gleam of 
grace. 
De Brito. Your Christian's Chris- 
tian charity. 

Becket. By St. Denis 

De Brito. Ay, by St. Denis, now will 
he flame out, 
And lose his head as old St. Denis 
did. 
Becket. Ye think to scare me from 
my loyalty 
To God and to the Holy Father. 

No! 
Tho' all the swords in England flash'd 

above me 
Ready to fall at Henry's word or 

yours — 
Tho' all the loud-lung'd trumpets 

upon earth 
Blared from the heights of all the 

thrones of her kings, 
Blowing the world against me, 1 would 
stand 



i Clothed with the full authority of 
Rome, 
Mail'd in the perfect panoply of faith, 
First of the foremost of their files, 

who die 
For God, to people heaven in the great 

day 
When God makes up his jewels. Once 

I fled — 
Never again, and you — I marvel at 

you — 
Ye know what is between us. Ye 

have sworn 
Yourselves my men when I was Chan- 
cellor — 
My vassals — and yet threaten your 

Archbishop 
In his own house. 

Knights. Nothing can be between us 
That goes against our fealty to the 
King. 
Fitzurse. And in his name we charge 
you that ye keep 
This traitor from escaping. 

Becket. Rest you easy, 

For I am easy to keep. I shall not fly. 
Here, here, here will you find me. 

De MorviUe. Know you not 

You have spoken to the peril of your 
life? 
Becket. As I shall speak again. 
Fitzurse, De Tracy, andDe Brito. To 

arms ! 
[They rush out, De MorviUe lingers. 
Becket. De MorviUe, 

I had thought so well of you ; and 

even now 
You seem the least assassin of the 

four. 
Oh, do not damn yourself for com- 
pany ! 
Is it too late for me to save your soul ? 
I pray you for one moment stay and 
speak. 
De MorviUe. Becket, it is too late. 

[Exit. 

Becket. Is it too late ? 

Too late on earth may be too soon in 

hell. 

Knights (in the distance). Close the 

great gate — ho, there — upon 

the town. 



894 



BECKET. 



Becket' s Retainers. Shut the hall- 
doors. [A pause. 
Becket. You hear them, brother 
John ; 
Why do you stand so silent, brother 
John? 
John of Salisbury. For I was mus- 
ing on an ancient saw, 
Suaviter in modo,fortiter in re, 
Is strength less strong when hand-in- 
hand with grace ? 
Gratior in pulchro corpore virtus. 

Thomas, 
Why should you heat yourself for 
such as these ? 
Becket. Methought I answer'd mod- 
erately enough. 
John of Salisbury. As one that 
blows the coal to cool the fire. 
My lord, I marvel why you never lean 
On any man's advising but your own. 
Becket. Is it so, Dan John 1 well, 

what should I have done ? 
John of Salisbury. You should have 
taken counsel with your friends 
Before these bandits brake into your 

presence. 
They seek — you make — occasion for 
your death. 
Becket. My counsel is already taken, 
John. 
I am prepared to die. 
John of Salisbury . We are sinners 
all, 
The best of all not all-prepared to die. 
Becket. God's will be done ! 
John of Salisbury. Ay, well. God's 
will be done ! 

Grim (re-entering). 

Grim. My lord, the knights are 
arming in the garden 
Beneath the sycamore. 

Becket. Good ! let them arm. 

Grim. And one of the De Brocs is 
with them, Bobert, 
The apostate monk that was with 

Bandulf here. 
He knows the twists and turnings of 
the place. 
Becket. No fear ! 



Grim. No fear, my lord. 

[Crashes on the hall-doors. The 
Monks fee. 
Becket (rising ) . Our dovecote flown ! 
I cannot tell why monks should all 
be cowards. 
John of Salisbury. Take refuge in 

your own cathedral, Thomas. 
Becket. Do they not fight the Great 
Fiend day by day ? 
Valor and holy life should go together. 
Why should all monks be cowards ? 

John of Salisbury. Are they so ? 

I say, take refuge in your own cathe- 
dral. 
Becket. Ay, but I told them I would 

wait them here. 
Grim. May they not say you dared 
not show yourself 
In your old place % and vespers are 

beginning. 
[Bell rings for vespers till end of scene. 
You should attend the office, give 

them heart. 
They fear you slain : they dread they 
know not what. 
Becket. Ay, monks, not men. 
Grim. I am a monk, my lord. 
Perhaps, my lord, you wrong us. 
Some would stand by you to the death. 
Becket. Your pardon. 

John of Salisbury. He said, "At- 
tend the office." 
Becket. Attend the office ? 

Why then — The Cross ! — who bears 

my Cross before me 1 
Methought they would have brain'd 
me with it, John. 

[Grim takes it. 
Grim. I ! Would that I could bear 

thy cross indeed ! 
Becket. The Mitre ! 
John of Salisbury. Will you wear 
it % — there ! 

[Becket puts on the mitre. 
Becket. The Pall! 

I go to meet my King ! 

[Puts on the pall. 
Grim. To meet the King ? 

[Crashes on the doors as they go out. 

John of Salisbury. Why do you 

move with such a stateliness 1 



BECKET. 



895 



Can you not hear them yonder like a 
storm, 

Battering the doors, and breaking 
thro' the walls ? 
Becket. Why do the heathen rage ? 
My two good friends, 

What matters murder'd here or mur- 
der' d there ? 

And yet my dream foretold my mar- 
tyrdom 

In mine own church. It is God's will. 
Go on. 

Nav, dras: me not. We must not seem 
to fly. 

SCENE III. — North Transept of 
Canterbury Cathedral. On the 
right hand a flight of steps 
leading to the choir, another 
flight on the left, leading to 
the North Aisle. Winter af- 
ternoon SLOWLY DARKENING. LOW r 
THUNDER NOW AND THEN OF AN AP- 
PROACHING storm. Monks heard 

CHANTING THE SERVICE. ROSA- 

MUND KNEELING. 

Rosamund. blessed saint, O glori- 
ous Benedict, — 

These arm'd men in the city, these 
fierce faces — 

Thy holy follower founded Canter- 
bury- 
Save that dear head which now is 
Canterbury, 

Save him, he saved my life, he saved 
my child, 

Save him, his blood would darken 
Henry's name ; 

Save him till all as saintly as thyself 

He miss the searching flame of purga- 
tory, and pass at once perfect 
to Paradise. 

'[Noise of steps and voices in the cloisters. 

Hark ! Is it they ? Coming ! He is 
not here — 

Not yet, thank heaven. save him ! 
[ Goes up steps leading to choir. 

Becket (entering, forced along by John 
of Salisbury and Grim). 
Becket. No, 1 tell you ! 

I cannot bear a hand upon my person, 



Why do you force me thus against 
my will ? 
Grim. My lord, we force you from 

your enemies. 
Becket. As you would force a king 

from being crown'd. 
John of Salisbury. We must not 
force the crown of martrydom. 
[Service stops. Monks come down 
from the stairs that lead to the 
choir. 
Monks. Here is the great Arch- 
bishop ! He lives ! he lives ! 
Die with him, and be glorified to- 
gether. 
Becket. Together ? . . . get you 

back ! go on with the office. 
Monks. Come, then, with us to ves- 
pers. 
Becket. How can I come 

When you so block the entry 1 Back, 

I say ! 
Go on with the office. Shall not 

Heaven be served 
Tho' earth's last earthquake clash'd 

the minster-bells, 
And the great deeps were broken up 

again, 
And hiss'd against the sun ? 

[Noise in the cloisters. 
Monks. The murderers, hark ! 

Let us hide ! let us hide ! 

Becket. What do these people fear ? 
Monks. Those arm'd men in the 

cloister. 
Becket. Be not such cravens ! 

I will go out and meet them. 

Grim and others. Shut the doors ! 
We will not have him slain before 
our face. 
[ They close the doors of the transept. 
Knocking. 
Fly, fly, my lord, before they burst 
the doors ! [Knocking. 

Becket. Why, these are our own 
monks who follow'd us ! 
And will you bolt them out, and have 

them slain ? 
Undo the doors : the church is not a 

castle : 
Knock, and it shall be open'd. Are 
you deaf \ 



896 



BECKET. 



What, have I lost authority among 

you? 
Stand by, make way ! 

[Opens the doors. Enter Monks 
from cloister. 

Come in, my friends, come in ! 
Nay, faster, faster ! 

Monks. Oh, my lord Archbishop, 
A score of knights all arm'd with 

swords and axes — 
To the choir, to the choir ! 

[Monks divide, part flying by the 
stairs on the right, part by those 
on the left. The rush of these last 
bears Becket along with them 
some way up the steps, where he 
is left standing alone. 
Becket. Shall I too pass to the choir, 
And die upon the Patriarchal throne 
Of all my predecessors ? 

John of Salisbury. No, to the crypt! 
Twenty steps down. Stumble not in 

the darkness, 
Lest they should seize thee. 

Grim. To the crypt ? no — no, 

To the chapel of St. Blaise beneath 

the roof ! 

John of Salisbury (pointing upward 

and downward). That way, or 

this ! Save thyself either way. 

Becket. Oh, no, not either way, nor 

any way 

Save by that way which leads thro' 

night to light. 
Not twenty steps, but one. 
And fear not I should stumble in the 

darkness, 
Nor tho' it be their hour, the power of 

darkness, 
But my hour too, the power of light 

in darkness ! 
I am not in the darkness but the light, 
Seen by the Church in Heaven, the 

Church on earth — 
The power of life in death to make 
her free ! 
[Enter the four Knights. John of 
Salisbury flies to the altar of St. 
Benedict. 
Fitzurse. Here, here, King's men ! 
[ Catches hold of the last flying Monk. 
Where is the traitor Becket 1 



Monk. I am not he ! I am not he, 
my lord. 
I am not he indeed ! 

Fitzurse. Hence to the fiend ! 

[Pushes him away- 

Where is this treble traitor to the King? 

Be Tracy. Where is the Archbishop, 

Thomas Becket ? 
Becket. Here. 

No traitor to the King, but Priest of 

God, 
Primate of England. 

[Descending into the transept. 

I am he ye seek. 

What would ye have of me 1 

Fitzurse. Your life. 

De Tracy. Your life. 

De Morville. Save that you will 

absolve the bishops. 
Becket. Never, — 

Except they make submission to the 

Church. 
You had my answer to that cry before. 
De Morville. Why, then you are a 

dead man ; flee ! 
Becket. I will not. 

I am readier to be slain, than thou to 

slay. 
Hugh, I know well thou hast but half 

a heart 
To bathe this sacred pavement with 

my blood. 
God pardon thee and these, but God's 

full curse 
Shatter you all to pieces if ye harm 
One of my flock ! 

Fitzurse. Was not the great gate 
shut ? 
They are thronging in to vespers — 

half the town. 
We shall be overwhelm'd. Seize him 

and carry him ! 
Come with us— nay — thou art our 
prisoner — come ! 
De Morville. Ay, make him prisoner, 
do not harm the man. 
[Fitzurse lays hold of the Arch- 
bishop's pall. 
Becket. Touch me not ! 
De Brito. How the good priest gods 
himself ! 
He is not yet ascended to the Father. 



BECKET. 



897 



Fitzurse. I will not only touch, but 

drag thee hence. 
Becket. Thou art my man, thou art 
my vassal. Away ! 
[Flings hiin ojf till he reels, almost 
to falling. 
De Tracy [lays hold of the poll). 
Come ; as he said, thou art our 
prisoner. 
Becket. Down ! 

[Throws him headlong. 
Fitzurse (advances with drawn sword). 
1 told thee that I should remember 
thee ! 
Becket. Profligate pander ! 
Fitzurse. Do you hear that ? strike, 
strike. 
[Strikes off the Archbishop's mitre, 
and wounds him in the forehead. 
Becket (covers his eyes with his hand). 
1 do commend my cause to God, the 

Virgin. 
St. Denis of France and St. Alphege 

of England, 
And all the tutelar Saints of Canter- 
bury. 
[Grim wraps his arms about the 
Archbishop. 
Spare this defence, dear brother. 

[Tracy has arisen, and approaches, 

hesitatingly, with his sword raised. 

Fitzurse. Strike him, Tracy ! 

Rosamund (rushing down steps from 

choir). No, No, No, No ! 
Fitzurse. This wanton here. De 
Morville, 
Hold her away. 

De Morville. I hold her. 
Rosamund (held back by De Morville, 
and stretching out her arms). 
Mercy, mercy. 
As you would hope for mercy. 

Fitzurse. Strike, I say. 

Grim. God, noble knights, 
sacrilege ! 



Strike our Archbishop in his own 

cathedral ! 
The Pope, the King, will curse you — 

the whole world 
Abhor you ; ye will die the death of 

dogs ! 

Nay, nay, good Tracy. [Lifts his arm. 

Fitzurse. Answer not, but strike. 

De Tracy. There is my answer then. 

[Sword falls on, Grim's arm, and 

glances from it, wounding Becket. 

Gri?n. Mine arm is sever'd. 

I can no more — fight out the good 

fight — die 
Conqueror. 

[Staggers info the chapel of St. 
Benedict. 
Becket (falling on his knees). At the 
right hand of Power — 
Power and great glory — for thy 

Church, Lord — 
Into Thy hands, Lord — into Thy 

hands ! [Sinks prone. 

De Brito. This last to rid thee of a 
world of brawls ! [Kills him . 
The traitor's dead, and will arise no 
more. 
Fitzurse. Nay, have we still'd him ? 
What ! the great Archbishop ! 
Does he breathe ? No ? 

De Tracy. No, Reginald, he is dead. 

[Storm bursts. 1 

De Morville. Will the earth gape 

and swallow us 1 
De Brito. The deed's done. — 

Away ! 

[De Brito, De Tracy, Fitzurse, 
rush out, crying "King's men!" 
De Morville follows slowli/. 
Flashes of lightning thro' the 
Cathedral. Rosamund seen 
kneeling by the body of Becket. 

1 A tremendoiib thunderstorm actually 
broke over the Cathedral aa the murderers 
were leaving it. 



THE PROMISE OF MAT. 



'A surface man of theories, true to none. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Farmer Dobson. 

Mr. Philip Edgar, afterwards Mr. Haroli?, 

Farmer Steer, Dora and Eva's Father. 

Mr. Wilson, a Schoolmaster. 

Higgins \ 

James 

Dan Smith \- Farm Laborers. 

Jackson 

Allen 

Dora Steer. 

Eva Steer. 

Sally Allen 1 



I 
V Fa 



MlLLY 



Farm Servants. 



Farm Servants, Laborers, etc. 



ACT I. 

SCENE. — Before Farmhouse. 

Farming Men and Women. Farming Men 
carrying forms, etc., Women carrying 
baskets of knives and forks, etc. 

1st Farming Man. 
Be thou a-gawin' to the long barn ? 

2d Farming Man. 
Ay, to be sewer ! Be thou ? 

1st Farming Man. 
Why, o' coorse, fur it be the owd 
man's birthdaay. He be heighty this 
very daay, and 'e telled all on us to be 
i' the long barn by one o'clock, fur 
he'll gie us a big dinner, and haafe 
th' parish '11 be theer, an' Miss Dora, 
an' Miss Eva, an' all ! 

2d Farming Man. 
Miss Dora be coomed back, then 1 



1st Farming Man. 

Ay, haafe an hour ago. She be in 
theer now. (Pointing to house.^ Owd 
Steer wur afeard she wouldn't be 
back i' time to keep his birthdaay, 
and he wur in a tew r about it all the 
murnin' ; and he sent me wi' the gig 
to Littlechester to fetch 'er ; and 'er 
an' the owd man they fell a kissin' o' 
one another like two sweet'arts i' the 
poorch as soon as he clapt eyes of 'er. 

2d Farming Man. 

Foalks says he likes Miss Eva the 
best. 

1st Farming Man. 

Naay, I knaws nowt o' what foalks 
says, an' I caares nowt neither. 
Foalks doesn't hallus knaw thessens ; 
but sewer I be, they be two o' the 
purtiest gels ye can see of a summer 
murnin'. 



THE PROMISE OF MAY. 



899 



2d Farming Man. 

Beant Miss Eva gone off a bit of 
'er good looks o' laate ? 

1st Farming Man. 
Noa, not a bit. 

2d Farming Man. 

Why coom awaiiy, then, to the long 
barn. 

[Exeunt. 

Dora looks out of window. Enter 

DOBSON. 

Dora (singing). 

The town lay still in the low sun-light, 
The hen cluckt late by the white farm 

gate, 
The maid to her dairy came in from 

the cow, 
The stoL'k-dove coo'd at the fall of 

night, 
The blossom had open'd on every 

bough ; 
joy for the promise of May, of 

May, 
joy for the promise of May. 

(Nodding at Dobson.) I'm coming 
down, Mr. Dobson. I haven't seen 
Eva yet. Is she anywhere in the 
garden ? 

Dobson. 
Noa, Miss. I ha'n't seed 'er neither. 

Dora (enters singing). 

But a red fire woke in the heart of 

the town, 
And a fox from the glen ran away 

with the hen, 
And a cat to the cream, and a rat to 

the cheese ; 
And the stock-dove coo'd, till a kite 

dropt down, 
And a salt wind burnt the blossoming 

trees ; 
O grief for the promise of May, j 

of May, 
O grief for the promise of May. 



I don't know why I sing that song ; 
I don't love it. 

Dobson. 

Blessings on your pretty voice, Miss 
Dora. Wheer did they larn ye that ? 

Dora. 

In Cumberland, Mr. Dobson. 

Dobson. 

An' how did ye leave the owd uncle 
i' Coomberland ? 

Dora. 

Getting better, Mr. Dobson. But 
he'll never be the same man again. 

Dobson. 

An' how d'ye find the owd man 
'ere ? 

Dora. 

As well as ever. I came back to 
keep his birthday. 

Dobson. 

Well, I be coomed to keep his 
birthdaay an' all. The owd man be 
heighty to-daay, beant he ? 

Dora. 

Yes, Mr. Dobson. And the day's 
bright like a friend, but the wind east 
like an enemy. Help me to move 
this bench for him into the sun. 
(They move bench.) No, not that 
way — here, under the apple tree. 
Thank you. Look how full of rosy 
blossom it is. [Pointing to apple tree. 

Dobson. 

Theer be redder blossoms nor them, 
Miss Dora. 

Dora. 
Where do they blow, Mr. Dobson % 

Dobson. 
Under your eyes, Miss Dora. 



900 



THE PROMISE OF MAY. 



Dora. 
Do they ? 

Dobson. 

And your eyes be as blue as 

Dora. 

What, Mr. Dobson? A butcher's, 
frock? 

Dobson. 
Noa, Miss Dora ; as blue as 

Dora. 

Bluebell, harebell, speedwell, blue- 
bottle, succory, forget-me-not? 

Dobson. 
Noa, Miss Dora; as blue as 

Dora. 

The sky ? or the sea on a blue day ? 

Dobson. 

Naay then. I mean'd they be as 
blue as violets. 



Are they 



Dora. 



Dobson. 



Theer ye goas agean, Miss, niver 
believing owt I says to ye — hallus 
a-fobbing ma off, tho' ye knavvs I 
love ye. I warrants ye'll think moor 
o' this young Squire Edgar as ha' 
coomed among us — the Lord knaws 
how — ye'll think more on 'is little 
finger than hall my hand at the 
haltar. 

Dora. 

Perhaps, Master Dobson. I can't 
tell, for I have never seen him. But 
my sister wrote that he was mighty 
pleasant, and had no pride in him. 

Dobson. 
He'll be arter you now, Miss Dora. 



Dora. 
Will he ? How can I tell ? 
Dobson. 

He's been arter Miss Eva, haan't 
he? 

Dora. 
Not that I know. 

Dobson. 

Didn't I spy 'em a -sitting i' the 
woodbine harbor togither ? 

Dora. 

. What of that ? Eva told me that 
he was taking her likeness. He's an 
artist. 

Dobson. 

What's a hartist ? I doant believe 
he's iver a 'eart under his waistcoat. 
And I tells ye what, Miss Dora : he's 
no respect for the Queen, or the par- 
son, or the justice o' peace, or owt. 
I ha' heard 'im a-gawin' on 'ud make 
your 'air — God bless it! — stan' on 
end. And wuss nor that. When 
theer wur a meeting o' farmers at 
Littlechester t'other daay, and they 
was all a-crying out at the bad times, 
he cooms up, and he calls out among 
our oan men, " The land belongs to 
the people ! " 

Dora. 

And what did you say to that ? 

Dobson. 

Well, I says, s'pose my pig's the 
land, and you says it belongs to the 
parish, and theer be a thousand i' 
the parish, taakin' in the women and 
childer; and s'pose I kills my pig, 
and gi'es it among 'em, why there 
wudn't be a dinner for nawbody, and 
I should ha' lost the pig. 

Dora. 

And what did he say to that? 



THE PROMISE OF MAY. 



901 



Dobsox. 

Nowt — what could he saay ? But 
I taakes 'im fur a bad lot and a burn 
fool, and I haates the very sight on 
him. 

Dora. 

{Looking at Dobsox.) Master Dob- 
son, you are a comely man to look at. 

Dobson. 

I thank you for that, Miss Dora, 
onyhow. 

Dora. 

Ay, but you turn right ugly when 
you're in an ill temper ; and I prom- 
ise you that if you forget yourself in 
your behavior to this gentleman, my 
father's friend, I will never change 
word with you again. 

Enter Farming Max from barn. 

Farming Max. 

Miss, the farming men 'ull hev 
their dinner i' the long barn, and the 
master 'ud be straiinge an' pleased if 
you'd step in fust, and see that all be 
right and reg'lar fur 'em afoor he 
coom. 

[Exit. 
Dora. 

I go. Master Dobson, did you hear 
what I said ? 

Dobsox. 

Yeas, yeas ! I'll not meddle wi' 'im 
if he doant meddle wi' mea. (Exit 
Dora.) Coomly, says she. I niver 
thowt o' mysen i' that waay; but if 
she'd taiike to ma i' that waay, or ony 
waay, I'd slaiive out my life fur 'er. 
"Coomly to look at," says she — but 
she said it spiteful-like. To look at 
— yeas, "coomly"; and she mayn't 
be so fur out theer. But if that be 
nowt to she, then it be nowt to me. 
( Looking off stage.) Schoolmaster! 
Why if Steer han't haxed school- 
master to dinner, thaw 'e knaws I 



was hallus agean heving schoolmaster 
i' the parish! fur him as be handy 
wi' a book bean't but haafe a hand 
at a pitchfork. 

Enter Wilson. 

Well, Wilson. I seed that one cow 
o' thine i' the pinfold agean as I wur 
a-coomin' 'ere. 

Wilson. 

Very likely, Mr. Dobson. She will 
break fence. I can't keep her in 
order. 

Dobson. 

An' if tha can't keep thy one cow 
i' border, how can tha keep all thy 
scholards i' horder ? But let that 
goa by. What dost a knaw o' this 
Mr. Hedgar as be a-lodgin' wi' ye? 
I coom'd upon 'im t'other daay lookin' 
at the coontry, then a-scrattin upon 
a bit o' paaper, then a-lookin' agean ; 
and I taaked 'im fur soom sort of a 
land-surveyor — but a beant. 

Wilson. 

He's a Somersetshire man, and a 
very civil-spoken gentleman. 

Dobson. 

Gentleman ! What be he a-doing 
here ten mile an' moor fro' a raail 1 
We laays out o' the waay fur gentle- 
foalk altogither — leastwaays they 
niver cooms 'ere but fur the trout i' 
our beck, fur they be knaw'd as far 
as Littlechester. But 'e doant fish 
neither. 

Wilson. 

Well, it's no sin in a gentleman not 
to fish. 

Dobson. 
Noa, but I haates 'im. 
Wilson. 

Better step out of his road, then, 
for he's walking to us, and with a 
book in his hand. 



902 



THE PROMISE OF MA Y. 



DOBSON. 

An' I haates boooks an' all, fur they 
puts foalk off the owd waays. 

Enter Edgar, reading — not seeing 
Dobson and Wilson. 

Edgar. 

This author, with his charm of simple 

style 
And close dialectic, all but proving 

man 
An automatic series of sensations, 
Has often numb'd me into apathy 
Against the unpleasant jolts of this 

rough road 
That breaks off short into the abysses 

— made me 
A Quietist taking all things easily. 

Dobson. 

{Aside.) There mun be summut 
wrong theer, Wilson, fur I doant 
understan' it. 

Wilson. 

(Aside.) Nor I either, Mr. Dob- 
son. 

Dobson. 

(Scornful I//.) An' thou doant un- 
derstan' it neither — and thou school- 
master an' all. 

Edgar. 

What can a man, then, live for but 

sensations, 
Pleasant ones'? men of old would 

undergo 
Unpleasant for the sake of pleasant 

ones 
Hereafter, like the Moslem beauties 

waiting 
To clasp their lovers by the golden 



For me, whose cheerless Houris after 

death 
Are Night and Silence, pleasant ones 

— the while — 
If possible, here ! to crop the flower 

and pass. 



Dobson. 

Well, I never 'eard the likes o' that 
afoor. 

Wilson. 

(Aside.) But I have, Mr. Dobson. 
It's the old Scripture text, "Let us 
eat and drink, for to-morrow we die." 
I'm sorry for it, for, tho' he never 
comes to church, I thought better of 
him. 

Edgar. 

"What are we," says the blind old 

man in Lear? 
"As flies to the Gods; they kill us 

for their sport." 

Dobson. 

(Aside.) Then the owd man i' 
Lear should be shaamed of hissen, 
but noan o' the parishes goas by that 
naame 'ereabouts. 

Edgar. 

The Gods ! but they, the shadows of 

ourselves, 
Have past forever. It is Nature kills, 
And not for her sport either. She 

knows nothing. 
Man only knows, the worse for him ! 

for why 
Cannot he take his pastime like the 

flies? 
And if my pleasure breed another's 

pain, 
Well — is not that the course of 

Nature too, 
From the dim dawn of Being — her 

main law 
Whereby she grows in beauty — that 

her flies 
Must massacre each other ? this poor 

Nature ! 

Dobson. 

Natur ! Natur ! Well, it be i' my 
natur to knock 'im o' the 'ead now ; 
but I weant. 



THE PROMISE OF MA Y. 



903 



Edgar. 

A Quietest taking all tilings easily — 

why — 
Have I been dipping into this again 
To steel myself against the leaving 

her?" 

{Closes book, seeing Wilson.) 
Good day ! 

Wilson. 
Good day, sir. 

(Dobson looks hard at Edgar.) 

Edgar. 
(To Dobson.) Havel the pleasure, 
friend, of knowing you 1 

Dobson. 
Dobson. 

Edgar. 
Good day, then, Dobson. [Exit. 

Dobson. 
" Good daay then, Dobson ! " Civil- 
spoken i'deed ! Why, Wilson, tha 
'eard 'im thysen — the feller couldn't 
find a Mister in his mouth fur me, as 
farms five hoonderd haacre. 

Wilson. 
You never find one for me, Mr. 
Dobson. 

Dobson. 
Noii, fur thou be nobbut school- 
master; but I taakes 'im fur a Lunnun 
swindler, and a burn fool. 

Wilson. 
He can hardly be both, and he pays 
me regular every Saturday. 

Dobson. 
Yeas ; but I haates 'im. 

Enter Steer, Farm Men and Women. 

Steer. 
(Goes and sits under apple tree.) 
Hev' ony o' ye seen Eva 1 



Dobson. 

Noli, Mr. Steer. 

Steer. 

Well, I reckons they'll hev' a fine 
cider-crop to-year if the blossom 'owds. 
Good murnin', neighbors, and the 
saame to you, my men. I taakes it 
kindly of all o' you that you be 
coomed — what's the newspaaper 
word, Wilson ? — celebrate — to cele- 
brate my birthdaay i' this fashion. 
Niver man 'ed better friends, and I will 
saiiy niver master 'ed better men : fui 
thaw I may ha' fallen out wi' ye some- 
times, the fault, mebbe, wur as much 
mine as yours; and, thaw I says it 
mysen, niver men 'ed a better master 
— and 1 knaws what men be, and 
what masters be, fur I wur nobbut a 
laaborer, and now I be a landlord — 
burn a plowman, and now, as far as 
money goas, I be a gentleman, thaw 
I beant naw scholard, fur I 'ednt naw 
time to maake mysen a scholard while 
I wur maakin' mysen a gentleman, 
but I ha taaen good care to turn out 
boath my darters right down fine 
laiidies. 

Dobson. 

An' soii they be. 

1st Farming Man. 
Soa they be ! soa they be ! 

2d Farming Man. 
The Lord bless boath on 'em ! 

3d Farming Man. 
An' the saame to you, Master. 

4th Farming Man. 
And long life to boath on 'em. \n' 
the saame to you, Master Steer, like- 
wise. 

Steer. 
Thank ye! 

Enter Eva. 
Wheer 'asta been ? 



904 



THE PROMISE OF MAY. 



Eva. 

{Timidly.) Many happy returns 
of the day, father. 

Steer. 
They can't be many, my dear, but 
I 'oapes they'll be 'appy. 

Dobson. 
Why, tha looks haale anew to last 
to a hoonderd. 

Steer. 
An' why shouldn't I last to a 
hoonderd 1 Haale ! why shouldn't I 
be haale 1 fur thaw I be heighty this 
very daay, I niver 'es sa much as one 
pin's prick of paain ; an' I can taake 
my glass along wi' the youngest, fur 
I niver touched a drop of owt till my 
oan wedding-daay, an' then I wur 
turned huppads o' sixty. Why 
shouldn't I be haale ? I ha' plowed 
the ten-aacre — it be mine now — 
afoor ony o' ye wur burn — ye all 
knaws the ten-aacre — I raun ha' 
plowed it moor nor a hoonderd times ; 
hallus hup at sunrise, and I'd drive 
the plow straait as a line right f the 
faace o' the sun, then back agean, 
a-follering my oan shadder — then 
hup agean i' the faace o' the sun. Eh ! 
how the sun 'ud shine, and the larks 
'ud sing i' them daays, and the smell 
o' the mou'd an' all. Eh ! if I could 
ha' gone on wi' the plowin' nobbut 
the smell o' the mou'd 'ud ha' maade 
ma live as long as Jerusalem. 

Eva. 
Methusaleh, father. 
Steer. 

Ay, lass, but when thou be as owd 
as methou'll put one word fur another 
as I does. 

Dobson. 

But, Steer, thaw thou be haale 
anew I seed tha a-limpin' up just 
now wi' the roomatics i' the knee. 



Steer. 

Roomatics ! Noa ; I laame't my 
knee last night running arter a thief. 
Beant there house-breakers down i' 
Li ttlechester, Dobson — doant ye hear 
of ony 1 

Dobson. 

Ay, that there be. Immanuel Gold- 
smiths was broke into o' Monday 
night, and ower a hoonderd pounds 
worth o' rings stolen. 

Steer. 

So I thowt, and I heard the winder 
— that's the winder at the end o' the 
passage, that goas by thy chaumber. 
(Turning to Eva.) Why, lass, what 
maakes tha sa red % Did 'e git into 
thy chaumber ? 



Father! 



Eva. 



Steer. 



Well, I runned arter thief i' the 
dark, and fell agean coalscuttle and 
my kneea gev waay, or I'd ha' cotched 
'im, but afoor I coomed up he got 
thruff the winder agean. 

Eva. 

Got thro' the window again % 

Steer. 

Ay, but he left the mark of 'is foot 
i' the flower-bed ; now theer be noan ' 
o' my men, thinks I to mysen, 'ud ha' 
done it 'cep' it were Dan Smith, fur I 
cotched Mm once a-stealin' coals, an' I 
sent fur 'im, an' I measured his foot 
wi' the mark i'" the bed, but it wouldn't 
fit — seeams to me the mark wur 
maade by a Lunnun boot. (Looks at 
Eva.) Why, now, what maakes tha 
sa white 1 



Eva. 



Fright, father ! 



THE PROMISE OF MAY. 



905 



Steer. 

Maake thysen easy. I'll hev the 
winder naailed up, and put Towser 
under it. 

Eva. 

(Clasping her hands.) No, no, 
father ! Towser'll tear him all to 
pieces. 

Steer. 

Let him keep awaay, then ; but 
coom, coom! let's be gawin. They 
ha' broached a barrel of aale i' the 
long barn, and the fiddler be theer, 
and the lads and lasses 'ull hev a 
dance. 

Eva. 

(Aside.) Dance ! small heart have 
I to dance. I should seem to be 
dancing upon a grave. 

Steer. 

Wheer be Mr. Edgar? about the 
premises ? 

Dobson. 
Hallus about the premises ! 
Steer. 

So much the better, so much the 
better. I likes 'im, and Eva likes 
'im. Eva can do owt wi' 'im ; look 
for 'im, Eva, and bring 'im to the 
barn. He 'ant naw pride in 'im, and 
we'll git 'im to speechify for us arter 
dinner. 

Eva. 

Yes, fa tlier ! [Exit. 

Steer. 

Coom along then, all the rest o' 
ye ! Church-warden be a coomin, 
thaw me and 'im we niver 'grees about 
the tithe; and Parson mebbe, thaw 
he niver mended that gap i' the glebe 
fence as I telled ! im ; and Blacksmith, 
thaw he niver shoes a herse to my 
likings; and Baaker, thaw I sticks to 
hoammaade — but all on 'em welcome. 



all on 'em welcome; and I've hed 
the long barn cleared out of all the 
machines, and the sacks, and the 
taiiters, and the mangles, and theer'll 
be room anew for all o' ye. Foller 
me. 

All. 

Yeas, yeas ! Three cheers for Mr. 
Steer ! 

[All exeunt except Dobson into barn. 

Enter Edgar. 

Dobson (who is going, turns). 

Squire ! — if so be you be a squire. 

Edgar. 
Dobbins, I think. 

Dobson. 

Dobbins, you thinks ; and I thinks 
ye wears a Lunnun boot. 



Well ? 



Edgar. 



Dobson. 



And I thinks I'd like to taake the 
measure o' your foot. 

Edgar. 

Ay, if you'd like to measure your 
own length upon the grass. 

Dobson. 

Coom, coom, that's a ' good un. 
Why, I could throw four o' ye ; but 
I promised one of the Misses I wouldn't 
meddle wi' ye, and I weant. 

[Exit into barn. 

Edgar. 

Jealous of me with Eva ! Is it so 1 
Well, tho' I grudge the pretty jewel, 

that I 
Have worn, to such a clod, yet that 

might be 
The best way out of it, if the child 

could keep 



906 



THE PROMISE OF MAY. 



Her counsel. I am sure I wish her 

happy. 
But I must free myself from this 

entanglement. 
I have all my life before me — so has 

she — 
Give her a month or two, and her 

affections 
Will flower toward the light in some 

new face. 
Still I am half afraid to meet her 

now. 
She will urge marriage on me. I hate 

tears. 
Marriage is but an old tradition. I 

hate 
Traditions, ever since my narrow 

father, 
After my frolic with his tenant's 

girl, 
Made younger elder son, violated the 

whole 
Tradition of our land, and left his 

heir, 
Born, happily, with some sense of art, 

to live 
By brush and pencil. By and by, 

when Thought 
Comes down among the crowd, and 

man perceives that 
The lost gleam of an after-life but 

leaves him 
A beast of prey in the dark, why then 

the crowd 
May wreak my wrongs upon my 

wrongers. Marriage ! 
That fine, fat, hook-nosed uncle of 

mine, old Harold, 
Who leaves me all his land at Little- 

chester, 
He, too, would oust me from his will, 

if I 
Made such a marriage. And marriage 

in itself — 
The storm is hard at hand will sweep 

away 
Thrones, churches, ranks, traditions, 

customs, marriage 
One of the feeblest ! Then the man, 

the woman, 
Following their best affinities, will 

each 



Bid their old bond farewell with 

smiles, not tears ; 
Good wishes, not reproaches ; with no 

fear 
Of the world's gossiping clamor, and 

no need 
Of veiling their desires. 

Conventionalism, 
Who shrieks by day at what she does 

by night, 
Would call this vice ; but one time's 

vice may be 
The virtue of another ; and Vice and 

Virtue 
Are but two masks of self ; and what 

hereafter 
Shall mark out Vice from Virtue in 

the gulf 
Of never-dawning darkness ? 

Enter Eva. 

My sweet Eva, 

Where have you lain in ambush all 
the morning ? 

They say your sister, Dora, has re- 
turn 'd, 

And that should make you happy, if 
you love her! 

But you look troubled. 

Eva. 

Oh, I love her so, 
I was afraid of her, and I hid myself. 
We never kept a secret from each 

other; 
She would have seen at once into my 

trouble, 
And ask'd me what I could not 

answer. Oh, Philip, 
Father heard you last night. Our 

savage mastiff, 
That all but kill'd the beggar, will be 

placed 
Beneath the window, Philip. 

x Edgar. 

Savage, is he? 
What matters ? Come, give me your 

hand and kiss me 
This beautiful May -morning. 



THE PROMISE OF MAY. 



907 



Eva. 

The most beautiful 
May we have had for many years ! 

Edgar. 

And here 

Is the most beautiful morning of this 
May. 

Nay, you must smile upon me ! There 
— you make 

The May and morning still more beau- 
tiful, 

You, the most beautiful blossom of 
the May. 

Eva. 

Dear Philip, all the world is beautiful 
If we were happy, and could chime in 
with it. 

Edgar. 

True; for the senses, love, are for the 

world ; 
That for the senses. 

Eva. 

Yes. 

Edgar. 

And when the man, 
The child of evolution, flings aside 
His swaddling-bands, the morals of 

the tribe, 
He, following his own instincts as his 

God, 
Will enter on the larger golden age; 
No pleasure then taboo'd : for when 

the tide 
Of full democracy has overwhelm'd 
This Old world, from that flood will 

rise the New, 
Like the Love-goddess with no bridal 

veil, 
Ring, trinket of the Church, but naked 

Nature 
In all her loveliness. 

Eva. 

What are you saying ' 



Edgar. 

That, if we did not strain to make 

ourselves 
Better and higher than Nature, we 

might be 
As happy as the bees there at their 

honey 
In these sweet blossoms. 

Eva. 

Yes ; how sweet they smell ! 

Edgar. 

There ! let me break some off for you. 
[Breakiny branch off. 

Eva. 

My thanks. 

But, look, how wasteful of the blos- 
som you are ! 

One, two, three, four, five, six — you 
have robb'd poor father 

Of ten good apples. Oh, I forgot to 
tell you 

He wishes you to dine along with us, 

And speak for him after — you that 
are so clever ! 

Edgar. 
I grieve I cannot; but, indeed 

Eva. 



What is it % 



Edgar. 



Well, business. 1 must leave you, 
love, to-day. 

Eva. 

Leave me, to-day ! And when will 
you return ? 

Edgar. 
1 cannot tell precisely ; but 

Eva. 

But what l 



908 



THE PROMISE OF MAY. 



Edgar. 

I trust, my dear, we shall be always 
friends. 

Eva. 

After all that has gone between us — 

friends ! 
What, only friends 1 [Drops branch. 

Edgar. 

All that has gone between us 
Should surely make us friends. 

Eva. 

But keep us lovers. 

Edgar. 
Child, do you love me now ? 

Eva. 

Yes, now and ever. 

Edgar. 

Then you should wish us both to love 

forever. 
But, if you will bind love to one for- 
ever, 
Altho' at first he take his bonds for 

flowers, 
As years go on, he feels them press 

upon him, 
Begins to flutter in them, and at last 
Breaks thro' them, and so flies away 

forever ; 
While, had you left him free use of 

his wings, 
Who knows that he had ever dream'd 

of flying ? 

Eva. 

But all that sounds so wicked and so 

strange \ 
" Till death us part " — those are the 

cnly words, 
The truo cnes — nay, and those not 

true enough, 
For they that love do not believe that 

death 



Will part them. Why do you jest 

with me, and try 
To fright me ? Tho' you are a 

gentleman,, 
I but a farmer's daughter ■ 

Edgar. 

Tut ! you talk 
Old feudalism. When the great 

Democracy 
Makes a new world 

Eva. 

And if you be not jesting, 
Neither the old world, nor the new, 

nor father, 
Sister, nor you, shall ever see me 

more. 

Edgar (moved). 

Then — (aside) Shall I say it 1 — 
(aloud) fly with me to-day. 

Eva. 

No ! Philip, Philip, if you do not 

marry me, 
I shall go mad for utter shame and 

die. 

Edgar. 

Then, if we needs must be conven- 
tional, 

When shall your parish-parson bawl 
our banns 

Before your gaping clowns ? 

Eva. 

Not in our church — 
I think I scarce could hold my head 

up there. 
Is there no other way ? 

Edgar. 

Yes, if you cared 
To fee an over-opulent superstition, 
Then they would grant you what they 

call a license 
To marry. Do you wish it ? 



Eva. 



Do I wish it 



THE PROMISE OF MAY. 



909 



I will. 



Edgar. . 
In London. 

Eva. 

You will write to me 7 
Edgar. 

Eva. 

And I will fly to you thro' the night 

the storm — 
Yes, tho' the fire should run along the • 

ground, 
As once it did in Egypt. Oh, you 

see, 
I was just out of school, I had no 

mother — 
My sister far away — and you, a 

gentleman, 
Told me to trust you : yes, in every- 
thing — 
That was the only true love ; and I 

trusted — 
Oh, yes, indeed, I would have died for 

you. 
How could you — Oh, how could you ? 

— nay, how could I ? 
Rut now you will set all right again, 

and I 
Shall not be made the laughter of the 

village, 
And poor old father not die miserable. 

Dora {singing in the distance'). 

" joy for the promise of May, of May, 
joy for the promise of May." 

Edgar. 

Speak not so loudly ; that must be 

your sister. 
You never told her, then, of what has 

past 
Between us. 

Eva. 
Never! 



Edgar. 
Do not till I bid you. 

Eva 

[Turns away. 



No, Philip, no. 



Edgar (moved). 

How gracefully there she stands 
Weeping — the little Niobe ! What ! 

we prize 
The statue or the picture all the 

more 
When we have made them ours ! Is 

she less loveable, 
Less lovely, being wholly mine ? To 

stay — 
Follow my art among these quiet 

fields, 

Live with these honest folk 

And play the fool ! 
No 1 she that gave herself to me so 

easily 
Will yield herself as easily to another. 

Eva. 
Did you speak, Philip ? 

Edgar. 
Nothing more, farewell. 
[They embrace. 

Dora (coming nearer). 
" O grief for the promise of May, of 

May, 
O grief for the promise of May." 

Edgar (still embracing her). 
Keep up your heart till we meet 
again. 

Eva. 
If that should break before we meet 
again 1 

Edgar. 
Break ! nay, but call for Philip when 

you will, 
And he returns. 

Eva. 
Heaven hears you, Philip Edgar ! 

Edgar (moved). 
And he would hear you even from the 

grave. 
Heaven curse him if he come not at 
your call 

[Exit. 



910 



THE PROMISE OF MA Y. 



Enter Dora. 



Well. Eva ! 



Dora. 



Eva. 



Oh, Dora, Dora, how long you have 
been away from home ! Oh, how often 
I have wished for you ! It seemed to 
me that we were parted forever. 

Dora. 

Forever, you foolish child ! What's 
come over you ? We parted like the 
brook yonder about the alder island, 
to come together again in a moment 
and to go on together again, till one 
of us be married. But where is this 
Mr. Edgar whom you praised so in 
your first letters 1 You haven't even 
mentioned him in your last ? 

Eva. 
He has gone to London. 

Dora. 

Ay, child ; and you look thin and 
pale. Is it for his absence ? Have 
you fancied yourself in love with him ? 
That's all nonsense, you know, such a 
baby as you are. But you shall tell 
me all about it. 

Eva. 
Not now — presently. Yes, I have 
been in trouble, but I am happy — I 
think, quite happy now. 

Dora (taking Eva's hand). 
Come, then, and make them happy 
in the long barn, for father is in his 
glory, and there is a piece of beef like 
a house-side, and a plum-pudding as 
big as the round haystack. But see 
they are coming out for the dance 
already. Well, my child, let us join 
them. 

Enter all from barn laughing. Eva sits 
reluctantly under apple tree. Steer 
enters smoking, sits by Eva. 

Dance. 



ACT II. 

Five years have elapsed between Acts I. 
and II. 

SCENE. — A Meadow. On one Side 
a Pathway going over a Rustic 
Bridge. At Back the Farmhouse 
among Trees. In the Distance 
a Church Spire. 

Dobson and Dora. 

Dobson. 
So the owd uncle i' Coomberland be 
dead, Miss Dora, beant he ? 

Dora. 

Yes, Mr. Dobson, I've been attend- 
ing on his death-bed and his burial. 

Dobson. 

It be five year sin' ye went afoor to 
him, and it seems to me nobbut t'other 
day. Hesn't he left ye nowt ? 

Dora. 
No, Mr. Dobson. 

Dobson. 

But he were mighty fond o' ye, 
warn't lie ? 

Dora. 

Fonder of poor Eva — like every- 
body else. 

Dobson (handing Dora basket of roses). 

Not like me, Miss Dora ; and I ha' 
browt these roses to ye — I forgits 
what they calls 'em, but I hallus gi'ed 
soom on 'em to Miss Eva at this time 
o' year. Will ya taake 'em ? fur Miss 
Eva, she set the bush by my dairy 
winder afoor she went to school at 
Littlechester — so I alius browt soom 
on 'em to her; and now she be gone, 
will ye taake 'em, Miss Dora 1 

Dora. 

I thank you. They tell me that 
yesterday you mentioned her name 



THE PROMISE OF MAY. 



911 



too suddenly before my father. See 
that you do not do so again ! 

Dobson. 

Noa; I knaws a deal better now. I 
seed how the owd man wur vext. 

Dora. 

I take them, then, for Eva's sake. 
[Takes basket, places some in her dress. 

Dobson. 

Eva's saake. Yeas. Poor gel, poor 
gel! I can't abear to think on 'er 
now, fur I'd ha' done owt fur 'er 
mysen ; an' ony o' Steer's men, an' 
ony o' my men 'ud ha' done owt fur 
'er, an' all the parish 'ud ha' done 
owt fur 'er, fur we was all onus proud 
on 'er, an' them theer be soom of her 
oan roses, an' she wur as sweet as ony 
on 'em — the Lord bless 'er — 'er oan 
sen ; an' weant ye taake 'em now, 
Miss Dora, fur 'er saake an' fur my 
saake an' all ? 

Dora. 

Do you want them back again ? 

Dobson. 

Noa, noa ! Keep 'em. But I hed 
a word to saay to ye. 

Dora. 

Why, Farmer, you should be in the 
hayfieid looking after your men; you 
couldn't have more splendid weather. 

Dobson. 

I be a going theer ; but I thowt I'd 
bring tha them roses fust. The 
weather's well anew, but the glass be 
a bit shaaky. S'iver we've led moast 
on it. 

Dora. 

Ay ! but you must not be too sud- 
den with it either, as you were last 
year, when you put it in green, and 
your stack caught fire. 



Dobson. 

I were insured, Miss, an' I lost nowt 
by it. But I weant be too sudden wi' 
it; and I feel sewer, Miss Dora, that 
I ha' been noiin too sudden wi' you, 
fur I ha' sarved for ye well nigh as 
long as the man sarved for 'is sweet- 
'art i' Scriptur'. Weant ye gi'e me a 
kind answer at last ? 

Dora. 
I have no thought of marriage, my 
friend. We have been in such grief 
these five years, not only on my sis- 
ter's account, but the ill success of the 
farm, and the debts, and my father's 
breaking down, and his blindness. 
How could I think of leaving him ? 

Dobson. 
Eh, but I be well to do; and if ye 
would nobbut hev me, I would taake 
the owd blind man to my oan fireside. 
You should hev him alius wi' ye. 

Dora. 
You are generous, but it cannot be. 
I cannot love you ; nay, I think 1 
never can be brought to love any man. 
It seems to me that I hate men, ever 
since my sister left us. Oh, see here. 
(Pulls out a letter.) I wear it next my 
heart. Poor sister, I had it five years 
ago. "Dearest Dora, — I have lost 
myself, and am lost forever to you 
and my poor father. I thought Mr. 
Edgar the best of men, and he has 
proved himself the worst. Seek not 
for me, or you may find me at the bot- 
tom of the river. — Eva." 

Dobson. 
Be that my fault ? 

Dora. 
No ; but how should I, with this 
grief still at my heart, take to the 
milking of your cows, the fatting of 
your calves, the making of your but- 
ter, and the managing of your poul 
try? 



912 



THE PROMISE OF MAY. 



DOBSON. 

Naay, but I hev an owd woman as 
'ud see to all that ; and you should sit 
i' your oan parlor quite like a laady, 
ye should ! 



Dora. 



It cannot be. 



Dobson. 

And plaSy the pianner, if ye liked, 
all daay long, like a laady, ye should 
an' all. 



Dora. 



It cannot be. 



Dobson. 

And I would loove tha moor nor 
ony gentleman 'ud loove tha. 

Dora. 
No, no ; it cannot be. 

Dobson. 

And p'raps ye hears 'at I soomtimes 
taakes a drop too much ; but that be 
all along o' you, Miss, because ye 
weant hev me ; but, if ye would, I 
could put all that o' one side easy 
anew. 

Dora. 

Cannot you understand plain words, 
Mr. Dobson ? I tell you, it cannot be. 

Dobson. 

Eh, lass ! Thy feyther eddicated 
his darters to marry gentlefoalk, and 
see what's coomed on it. 

Dora. 

That is enough, Farmer Dobson. 
You have sho^n me that, though for- 
tune had born you into the estate of a 
gentleman, you would still have been 
Farmer Dobson. You had better at- 
tend to your hayfield. Good after- 
noon. [Exit. 



Dobson. 

"Farmer Dobson"! Well, I be 
Farmer Dobson ; but I thinks Farmer 
Dobson's dog ; ud ha' knaw'd better 
nor to cast her sister's misfortin inter 
'er teeth arter she'd been a-readin' me 
the letter wi' 'er voice a-shaakin', and 
the drop in 'er eye. Theer she goas ! 
Shall I foller 'er and ax 'er to maake 
it up ? Noa, not yet. Let 'er cool 
upon it ; I likes 'er all the better fur 
taakin' me down, like a laady, as she 
be. Farmer Dobson! I be Farmer 
Dobson, sewer anew; but if iver I 
cooms upo' Gentleman Hedgaragean, 
and doant la ay my cartwhip athurt 'is 
shou'ders, why then I beant Farmer 
Dobson, but summun else — blaame't 
if I beant! 

Enter Haymakers with a load of hay. 
The last on it, eh ? 

1st Haymaker. 
Yeas. 

Dobson. 
Hoam wi' it, then. [Exit surlily. 

1st Haymaker. 
Well, it be the last load hoam. 

2d Haymaker. 

Yeas, an' owd Dobson should be 
glad on it. What maakes 'im alius 
sa glum ? 

Sally Allen. 

Glum ! he be wus nor glum. He 
coom'd up to me yisterdaay i' the 
haayfield, when mea, and my sweet'art 
was a workin' along o' one side wi' one 
another, and he sent 'im awaay to 
t'other end o' the field ; and when I 
axed 'im why, he telled me 'at sweet- 
'arts niver worked well togither; and 
I telled 'im 'at sweet'arts alius worked 
best togither ; and then he called me 
a rude naame, and I can't abide 'im. 



THE PROMISE OF MAY. 



913 



-Tames. 

Why, lass, doant tha knaw he be 
sweet upo' Dora Steer, and she weant 
sa much as look at 'ini 1 And when- 
iver 'e sees two sweet'arts togither 
like thou and me, Sally, he be fit to 
bust hissen wi' spites and jalousies. 

Sally . 

Let im bust hissen, then, for owt 
/ cares. 

1st Haymaker. 

Well but, as I said afoor, it be the 
last load hoam ; do thou and thy 
sweet'art sing us hoam to supper — 
"The Last Load Hoam." 

All. 
Ay ! " The Last Load Hoam." 

Song. 

What did ye do, and what did ye 

saay, 
Wi' the wild white rose, and the 

woodbine sa gaay, 
An' the midders all mow'd, and the 

sky sa blue — 
What did ye saay, and what did ye 

do, 
When ye thowt there were nawbody 

watchin' o' you, 
And you and your Sally was forkin' 

the haay, 
At the end of the daay, 
For the last load hoam ? 

What did we do, and what did we 

saay, 
Wi' the briar sa green, and the wilier 

sa graay, 
An' the midders all mow'd, and the 

sky sa bine — 
Do ye think I be gawin' to tell it to 

you, 
What we mowt saay, and what we 

mowt do, 
When me and my Sally was forkin' 

the haay, 
At the end of the daay, 
For the last load hoam ? 



But what did ye saay, and what did 

ye do, 
Wi' the butterflies out, and the swal- 

lers at plaay, 
An' the midders all mow'd, and the 

sky sa blue '< 
Why, coom then, owd feller, I'll tell 

it to you ; 
For me and my Sally we swear'd to 

be true, 
To be true to each other, let 'appen 

what maay, 
Till the end of the daay 
And the last load hoam. 



Well sung 



All. 



James. 



Fanny be the naame i' the song, 
but I swopt it fur she. 

[Pointing to Sally. 

Sally. 
Let ma aloan afoor f oalk, wilt tha 1 

1st Haymaker. 

Ye shall sing that agean to-night, 
fur owd Dobson '11 gi'e us a bit o' 
supper. 

Sally. 

I weant goa to owd Dobson ; he 
wur rude to me i' tha haayfield, and 
he'll be rude to me agean to-night. 
Owd Steer's gotten all his grass down 
and wants a hand, and I'll goa to 
him. 

1st Haymaker! 

Owd Steer gi'e? nubbut cowd tea 
to 'is men, and owd Dobson gi'es 
beer. 

Sally. 
But I'd like owd Steer's cowd tea 
better nor Dobson's beer. Good-bye. 
[ Going. 
James. 

Gi'e us a buss fust, lass. 

Sally. 

I tell'd tha to let ma aloan! 



914 



THE PROMISE OF MAY. 



James. 

Why, wasn't thou and me a-bussin' 
o' one another t'other side o' the haay- 
cock, when owd Dobson coom'd upo' 
us 1 I can't let thaa aloan if I would, 
Sally. [Offering to kiss her. 

Sally. 

Git along wi' ye, do ! [Exit. 

[All laugh; exeunt singing. 

" To be true to each other, let 'appen 
what maay, 
Till the end o' the daay 
An' the last load hoam." 

Enter Harold. 

Harold. 

Not Harold ! " Philip Edgar, Philip 

Edgar ! " 
Her phantom call'd me by the name 

she loved. 
I told her I should hear her from the 

grave. 
Ay ! yonder is her casement. I re- 
member 
Her bright face beaming starlike 

down upon me 
Thro' that rich cloud of blossom. 

Since I left her 
Here weeping, I have ranged the 

world, and sat 
Thro' every sensual course of that 

full feast 
That leaves but emptiness. 

Song. 

" To be true to each other, let 'appen 
what maay, 
To the end o' the daay 
An' the last load hoam." 



Harold. 

Poor Eva ! O my God, if man be only 
A willy-nilly current of sensations — 
Reaction needs must follow revel — 
yet — 



Why feel remorse, he, knowing that 

he must have 
Moved in the iron grooves of Destiny ? 
Remorse then is a part of Destiny, 
Nature a liar, making us feel guilty 
Of her own faults. 

My grandfather — of him 
They say, that women — 

this mortal house, 
Which we are born into, is haunted by 
The ghosts of the dead passions of 

dead men ; 
And these take flesh again with our 

own flesh, 
And bring us to confusion. 

He was only 
A poor philosopher who call'd the 

mind 
Of children a blank page, a tabula 

rasa. 
There, there, is written in invisible 

inks 
" Lust, Prodigality, Covetousness, 

Craft, 
Cowardice, Murder " — and the heat 

and fire 
Of life will bring them out, and black 

enough, 
So the child grow to manhood : better 

death 
With our first wail than life — 

Song (further off). 

" Till the end o' the daay 
An' the last load hoam, 
Load hoam." 

This bridge again ! (Steps wn the 
bridge.) 

How often have I stood 

With Eva here! The brook among 
its flowers ! 

Forget-me-not, meadowsweet, willow- 
herb. 

I had some smattering of science then, 

Taught her the learned names, anato- 
mized 

The flowers for her — and now I only 
wish 

This pool were deep enough, that I 
might plunge 

And lose myself forever. 



THE PROMISE OF MAY. 



915 



Enter Dan Smith {singing). 

Gee oop ! whoa ! Gee oop ! whoa ! 
Scizzars an' Pumpy was good uns to 
goa 
Thruf slush an' squad 
When roads was bad, 
But hallus ud stop at the Vine-an'- 
the-Hop, 
Fur boath on 'era knaw'd as well as 
mysen 
That beer be as good fur 'erses as 
men. 
Gee oop! whoa! Gee oop! whoa! 
Scizzars an' Pumpy was good uns to 
goa. 
The beer's gotten oop into my 'ead. 
S'iver I mun git along back to the 
farm, fur she tell'd ma to taake the 
cart to Littlechester. 

Enter Dora. 
Half an hour late ! why are you 
loitering here ? Away with you at 
once. [Exit Dan Smith. 

(Seeing Harold on bridge.) 

Some madman, is it, 
Gesticulating there upon the bridge 1 
I am half afraid to pass. 

Harold. 
Sometimes I wonder, 
When man has surely learnt at last 

that all 
His old-world faith, the blossom of 

his youth, 
Has faded, falling fruitless — whether 

then 
All of us, all at once, may not be 

seized 
With some fierce passion, not so much 

for Death 
As against Life! all, all, into the 

dark — 
No more! — and science now could 

drug and balm us 
Back into nescience with as little pain 
As it is to fall asleep. 

This beggarly life, 
This poor, flat, hedged-in field — no 

distance — this 



Hollow Fandora-box, 

With all the pleasures flown, not even 

Hope 
Left at the bottom! 

Superstitious fool, 
What brought me here ? To see her 

grave ? her ghost ? 
Her ghost is everyway about me here. 

Dora (coming forward). 

Allow me, sir, to pass you. 

Harold. 

Eva! 

Dora. 



Eva! 



Harold. 



What are you 1 Where do you come 
from ? 

Dora. 

From the farm 
Here, close at hand. 

Harold. 

Are you — you are — that Dora, 
The sister. I have heard of you. The 

likeness 
Is very striking 

Dora. 

You knew Eva, then ? 

Harold. 

Yes — I was thinking of her when — 
yes, 

Many years back, and never since 
have met 

Her equal for pure innocence of na- 
ture, 

And loveliness of feature. 



Dora. 



Harold. 



No, nor I. 



Except, indeed, I have found it once 

again 
In your own self. 



916 



THE PROMISE OF MAY. 



Dora. 

You flatter me. Dear Era 
Was always thought the prettier. 

Harold. 

And her charm 
Of voice is also yours ; and I was 

hrooding 
Upon a great unhappiness when you 
spoke. 

Dora. 

Indeed, you seem'd in trouble, sir. 

Harold. 

And you 
Seem my good angel who may help 
me from it. 

Dora (aside). 
How worn he looks, poor man ! who 

is it, I wonder. 
How can I help him 1 (Aloud.) 

Might I ask your name 1 

Harold. 
Harold. 

Dora. 
I never heard her mention you. 
Harold. 

I met her first at a farm in Cumber- 
land — 
Her uncle's. 

Dora. 
She was there six years ago. 

Harold. 
And if she never mention'd me, per- 



The painful circumstances which I 
heard — 

I will not vex you by repeating them — 

Only last week at Littlechester, drove 
me 

From out her memory. She has dis- 
appear^, 

They told me, from the farm — and 
darker news, 



Dora. 

She has disappear'd, poor darling, 

from the world — 
Left but one dreadful line to say, that 

we 
Should find her in the river; and we 

dragg'd 
The Littlechester river all in vain: 
Have sorrow'd for her all these years 

in vain. 
And my poor father, utterly broken 

down 
By losing her — she was his favorite 

child — 
Has let his farm, all his affairs, I fear, 
But for the slender help that I can 

give, 
Fall into ruin. Ah ! that villain, Ed- 
gar, 
If he should ever show his face among 

us, 
Our men and boys would hoot him, 

stone him, hunt him 
With pitchforks off the farm, for all 

of them 
Loved her, and she was worthy of all 

love. 

Harold. 
They say, we should forgive our 

enemies. 

Dora. 

Ay, if the wretch were dead I might 

forgive him ; 
We know not whether he be dead or 

living. 

Harold. 

What Edgar ? 

Dora. 

Philip Edgar of Toft Hall 
In Somerset. Perhaps you know him ? 

Harold. 

Slightly. 
(Aside.) Ay, for how slightly have 
I known myself. 

Dora. 

This Edgar, then, is living "? 



THE PROMISE OF MA Y. 



917 



Harold. 

Living ? well — 
One Philip Edgar of Toft Hall in 

Somerset 
Is lately dead. 

Dora. 
Dead ! — is there more than one ? 
Harold. 

Nay — now — not one, (aside) for I 
am Philip Harold. 

Dora. 

That one, is he then — dead ! 

Harold. 

(Aside.) My father's death, 
Let her believe it mine ; this, for the 

moment, 
Will leave me a free field. 

Dora. 

Dead ! and this world 
Is brighter for his absence as that other 
Is darker for his presence. 

Harold. 

Is not this 
To speak too pitilessly of the dead ? 

Dora. 

My five-years' anger cannot die at 

once, 
Not all at once with death and him. 

I trust 
I shall forgive him — by-and-by — not 

now. 
O sir, you seem to have a heart ; if 

you 
Had seen us that wild morning when 

we found 
Her bed unslept in, storm and shower 

lashing 
Her casement, her poor spaniel wail- 
ing for her, 
That desolate letter, blotted with her 

tears, 
Which told us we should never see 

her more — 



Our old nurse crying as if for her own 

child, 
My father stricken with his first 

paralysis, 
And then with blindness — had you 

been one of us 
And seen all this, then you would 

know it is not 
So easy to forgive — even the dead. 

Harold. 

But sure am I that of your gentleness 
You will forgive him. She, you mourn 

for, seem'd 
A miracle of gentleness — would not 

blur 
A moth's wing by the touching; would 

not crush 
The fly that drew her blood ; and, 

were she living, 
Would not — if penitent — have denied 

him her 
Forgiveness. And perhaps the man 

himself, 
When hearing of that piteous death, 

has suffer'd 
More than we know. But wherefore 

waste your heart 
In looking on a chill and changeless 

Past? 
Iron will fuse, and marble melt ; the 

Past 
Remains the Past. But you are young, 

and — pardon me — 
As lovely as your sister. Who can 

tell 
What golden hours, with what full 

hands, may be 
Waiting vou in the distance? Might 

I call 
! Upon your father — I have seen the 

world — 
| And cheer his blindness with a travel- 
ler's tales 1 

Dora. 

' Call if you will, and when you will. 

I cannot 
Well answer for my father; but if 

you 
Can tell me anything of our sweet Eva 



918 



THE PROMISE OF MA V. 



When in her brighter girlhood, I at 

least 
Will bid you welcome, and will listen 

to you. 
Now I must go. 

Harold. 

But give me first your hand : 
I do not dare, like an old friend, to 

shake it. 
I kiss it as a prelude to that privilege 
When you shall know me better. 

Dora. 

{Aside.) How beautiful 
His manners are, and how unlike the 

farmer's ! 
You are staying here 1 

Harold. 

Yes, at the wayside inn 
Close by that alder-island in your 

brook, 
" The Angler's Home." 

Dora. 

Are you one ? 

Harold. 

No, but I 
Take some delight in sketching, and 

the country 
Has many charms, altho' the inhabi- 
tants 
Seem semi-barbarous. 

Dora. 

I am glad it pleases you ; 
Yet I, born here, not only love the 

country, 
But its inhabitants too; and you, I 

doubt not, 
Would take to them as kindly, if you 

cared 
To live some time among them. 

Harold. 

If I did, 
Then one at least of its inhabitants 
Might have more charm for me than 
all the country. 



Dora. 

That one, then, should be grateful 
for your preference-. 

Harold. 
1 cannot tell, tho' standing in her 

presence. 
(Aside.) She colors ! 

Dora. 
Sir! 

Harold. 

Be not afraid of me, 
For these are no conventional flour- 
ishes. 
I do most earnestly assure you that 

Your likeness 

[Shouts and cries without. 

Dora. 
What was that? my poor blind 
father — 

Enter Farming Man. 
Farming Man. 
Miss Dora, Dan Smith's cart hes 
runned ower a laady i' the holler 
laane, and they ha' ta'en the body 
up inter your chaumber, and they be 
all a-calfin' for ye. 

Dora. 
The body ! — Heavens ! I come ! 

Harold. 

But you are trembling. 
Allow me to go with you to the farm. 

[Exeunt. 
Enter Dobson. 

DOBSON. 

What feller wur it as 'a' been a- 
talkin' fur haafe an hour wi' my 
Dora? (Looking after him.) Seeams 
I ommost knaws the back on 'im — 
drest like a gentleman, too. Damn 
all gentlemen, says I ! I should ha' 
thowt they'd hed anew of gentlefoalk, 
as I telled 'er to-daay when she fell 
foul upo' me. 



THE PROMISE OF MA Y. 



919 



Minds ma o' summun. I could 
swear to that; but that be all one, 
fur 1 haates 'ira afoor 1 knaws what 
'e be. Theer! he turns round. Philip 
Hedgar o' Soomerset! Philip Hed- 
gar o' Soomerset ! — Noa — yeas — 
thaw the feller's gone and maade 
such a litter of his faace. 

Eh lad, if it be thou, I'll Philip 
tha ! a-plaayin' the saame gaame \vi' 
my Dora — I'll Soomerset tha. 

I'd like to drag 'im thruff the herse- 
pond, and she to be a-lookin' at it. 
I'd like to leather 'im black and blue, 
and she to be a-laughin' at it. I'd 
like to fell 'im as dead as a bullock ! 
(Clenching his Jist.) 

But what 'ud she saay to that 1 She 
telled me once not to meddle wi' 'im, 
and now she be fallen out wi' ma, and 
I can't coom at 'er. 

It mun be him. Noa! Fur she'd 
niver 'a been talkin' haafe an hour 
wi' the divil 'at killed her oan sister, 
or she beant Dora Steer. 

Yeas ! Fur she niver knawed 'is 
faace when 'e wur 'ere afoor ; but I'll 
maake 'er knaw! I'll maake 'er 
knaw ! 

Enter Harold. 
Naay, but I mun git out on 'is waay 
now, or I shall be the death on 'im. 

[Exit. 
Harold. 
How the clown glared at me! that 

Dobbins, is it, 
With whom I used to jar 1 but can he 

trace me 
Thro' five years' absence, and my 

change of name, 
The tan of southern summers and the 

beard. 
I may as well avoid him. 

Ladylike ! 
Lilylike in her stateliness and sweet- 
ness ! 
How came she by it ? — a daughter 

of the fields, 
This Dora! 

She gave her hand, unask'd, at the 
farm-gate; 



I almost think she half-return'd the 

pressure 
Of mine. What, I that held the orange 

blossom 
Dark as the yew ? but may not those, 

who march 
Before their age, turn back at times, 

and make 
Courtesy to custom ? and now the 

stronger motive, 
Misnamed free-will — the crowd would 

call it conscience — 
Moves me — to what 1 I am dream- 
ing; for the past 
Look'd thro' the present, Eva's eyes 

thro' hers — 
A spell upon me! Surely I loved Eva 
More than I knew ! or is it but the 

past 
That brightens in retiring ? Oh, last 

night, 
Tired, pacing my new lands at Little- 

chester, 
I dozed upon the bridge, and the black 

river 
Flow'd thro' my dreams — if dreams 

they were. She rose 
From the foul flood and pointed 

toward the farm, 
And her cry rang to me across the 

years, 
" I call vou, Philip Edgar, Philip 

Edgar! 
Come, you will set all right again, 

and father 
Will not die miserable." I could 

make his age 
A comfort to him — so be more at 

peace 
With mine own self. Some of my 

former friends 
Would find my logic faulty; let them. 

Color 
Flows thro' my life again, and I have 

lighted 
On a new pleasure. Anyhow we must 
Move in the line of least resistance 

when 
The stronger motive rules. 

But she hates Edgar. 
May not this Dobbins, or some other, 

spy 



920 



THE PROMISE OF MAY. 



Edgar in Harold ? Well then, I must 

make her 
Love Harold first, and then she will 

forgive 
Edgar for Harold's sake. She said 

herself 
She would forgive him, by-and-by, not 

now — 
For her own sake then, if not for mine 

— not now — 
But by-and-by. 

Enter Dobson behind. 

DOBSON. 

By-and-by — eh, lad, dosta knaw 
this paaper ? Ye dropt it upo' the 
road. "Philip Edgar, Esq." Ay, you 
be a pretty squire. I ha' fun' ye out, 
I hev. Eh, lad, dosta knaw what tha 
means wi' by-and-by ? Fur if ye be 
goin' to sarve our Dora as ye sarved 
our Eva — then, by-and-by, if she 
weant listen to me when I be a-tryin' 
to saave 'er — if she weant — look to 
thy sen, for, by the Lord, I'd think na 
moor o' maakin' an end o' tha nor 
a carrion craw — noa — thaw they 
hanged ma at 'Size fur it. 

Harold. 
Dobbins, I think ! 

Dobson. 
I beant Dobbins. 

Harold. 
Nor am I Edgar, my good fellow. 

Dobson. 

Tha lies ! What hasta been saay- 
in' to my Dora 1 

Harold. 

I have been telling her of the death 
of one Philip Edgar of Toft Hall, 
Somerset. 

Dobson. 

Tha lies ) 



Harold (pulling out a newspaper). 

Well, my man, it seems that you 
can read. Look there — under the 
deaths. 

Dobson. 

" 0' the 17th, Philip Edgar, o' Toft 
Hall, Soomerset." How coom thou 
to be sa like 'im, then? 

Harold. 

Naturally enough ; for I am closely 
related to the dead man's family. 

Dobson. 
An' 'ow coom thou by the letter to 



Harold. 

Naturally again ; for as I used to 
transact all his business for him, I 
had to look over his letters. Now 
then, see these (takes out letters). 
Half a score of them, all directed to 
me — Harold. 

Dobson. 

'Arold ! 'Arold ! 'Arold, so they be. 

Harold. 

My name is Harold! Good day, 
Dobbins ! [Exit. 

Dobson. 

'Arold ! The feller's clean daazed, 
an' maazed, an' maated, an' muddled 
ma. Dead ! It mun be true, fur it 
wur i' print as black as owt. Naay, 
but " Good daay, Dobbins." Why, 
that wur the very twang on 'im. Eh, 
lad, but whether thou be Hedgar, or 
Hedgar's business man, thou hesn't 
naw business 'ere wi' my Dora, as I 
knaws on, an' whether thou calls thy- 
sen Hedgar or Harold, if thou stick 
to she I'll stick to thee — stick to 
tha like a weasel to a rabbit, I will. 
Ay! and I'd like to shoot tha like a 
rabbit an' all. " Good daay, Dob- 
bins." Dang tha 1 



THE PROMISE OF MAY. 



921 



ACT III. 

SCENE. — A Room in Steer's House. 
Door leading into Bedroom at 
the Back. 

Dora (ringing a handbell). 
Milly ! 

Enter Milly. 
Milly. 

The little 'ynin ? Yeas, Miss; but 
I wur so ta'en up \\V leadin' the owd 
man about all the blessed murnin' 'at 
I ha' nobbut lamed mysen haafe on it. 

"O man, forgive thy mortal foe, 
Nor ever strike him blow for blow ; 
For all the souls on earth that live 
To be forgiven must forgive. 
Forgive him seventy times and seven : 
For all the blessed souls in Heaven 
Are both forgivers and forgiven." 

But I'll git the book agean, and larn 
mysen the rest, and saiiy it to ye 
afoor dark; ye ringed fur that, Miss, 
didn't ye ? 

Dora. 

No, Milly ; but if the farming men 
be come for their wages, to send them 
up to me. 

Milly. 

Yeas, Miss. . [Exit. 

Dora (sitting at desk counting money). 

Enough at any rate for the present. 
(Enter Farming Men.) Good after- 
noon, my friends. I am sorry Mr. 
Steer still continues too unwell to 
attend to you, but the schoolmaster 
looked to the paying you your wages 
when I was away, didn't he ? 

Men. 

Yeas ; and thanks to ye. 

Dora. 

Some of our workmen have left us, 
but he scut me an alphabetical list of 



those that remain, so, Allen, I may as 
well begin with you. 

Allen (with his hand to his ear). 

Halfabitical ! Taake one o' the 
young ones fust, Miss, fur I be a bit 
deaf, and I wur hallus scaared by a 
big word ; leastwaays, I should be wi' 
a lawyer. 

Dora. 

I spoke of your names, Allen, as 
they are arranged here (shows book) 
— according to their first letters. 

Allen. 

Letters ! Yeas, I sees now. Them 
be what they larns the childer' at 
school, but I were burn afoor school- 
in-time. 

Dora. 

But, Allen, tho' you can't read, you 
could whitewash that cottage of yours 
where your grandson had the fever. 

Allen. 

I'll hev it done o' Monday. 
Dora. 

Else if the fever spread, the parish 
will have to thank you for it. 

Allen. 

Mea? why, it be the Lord's doin', 
noan o' mine ; d'ye think I'd gi'e 'em 
the fever ? But I thanks ye all the 
saame, Miss. (Takes money.) 

Dora (calling out names). 

Higgins, Jackson, Luscombe, 
Nokes, Oldham, Skipworth ! (All 
take money.) Did you find that you 
worked at all the worse upon the cold 
tea than you would have done upon 
the beer ? 

Higgins. 

Noa, Miss ; we worked naw wuss 
iino' the cowd tea; but we'd ha' 
worked better upo' the beer. 



922 



THE PROMISE OF MAY. 



Dora. 

Come, come, you worked well 
enough, and I am much obliged to all 
of you. There's for you, and you, 
and you. Count the money and see 
if it's all right. 

Men. 

All right, Miss; and thank ye 
kindly. 
[Exeunt Luscombe, Nokes, Oldham, 

Skipworth. 

Dora. 

Dan Smith, my father and I forgave 
you stealing our coals. 

[Dan Smith advances to Dora. 

Dan Smith (bellowing). 

Whoy, O lor, Miss ! that wur sa 
long back, and the walls sa thin, and 
the winders brokken, and the weather 
sa cowd, and my missus a-gittin' ower 
'er lyin'-in. 

Dora. 

Didn't I say that we had forgiven 
you ? But, Dan Smith, they tell me 
that you — and you have six children 
— spent all your last Saturday's 
wages at the ale-house; that you 
were stupid drunk all Sunday, and so 
ill in consequence all Monday, that 
you did not come into the hayfield. 
Why should I pay you your full 
wages ? 

Dan Smith. 

I be ready to taake the pledge. 
Dora. 

And as ready to break it again. 
Besides it was you that were driving 
the cart — and I fear you were tipsy 
then, too — when you lamed the lady 
in the hollow lane. 

Dan Smith (bellowing). 

lor, Miss! noa, noa, noa! Ye 
sees the holler laane be hallus sa 



dark i' the arternoon, and wheere the 
big eshtree cuts athurt it, it gi'es a 
turn like, and 'ow should I see to 
laame the laady, and mea coomin' 
along pretty sharp an' all ? 

Dora. 

Well, there are your wages; the 
next time you waste them at a pot- 
house you get no more from me. 
(Exit Dan Smith.) Sally Allen, you 
worked for Mr. Dobson, didn't you ? 

Sally (advancing). 

Yeas, Miss; but he wur so rough 
wi' ma, I couldn't abide 'im. 

Dora. 

Why should he be rough with you ? 
You are as good as a man in the 
hayfield. What's become of your 
brother ? 

Sally. 



'Listed for a soadger, Miss, i the 
Queen's Real Hard Tillery. 

Dora. 

And your sweetheart — when are 
you and he to be married 1 

Sally. 
At Michaelmas, Miss, please God. 

Dora. 

You are an honest pair. I will come 
to your wedding. 

Sally. 

An' I thanks ye fur that, Miss, 
moor nor fur the waage. 

(Going — returns.) 

'A cotched ma about the waaist, 
Miss, when 'e wur 'ere afoor, an' axed 
ma to be 'is little sweet-art, an soa I 
knaw'd 'im when I seed 'im agean an 
I telled f eyther on 'im. 



THE PROMISE OF MAY. 



923 



Dora. 

What is all this, Allen ? 

Allen. 

Why, Miss Dora, mea and my 
maates, us three, we wants to hev 
three words wi' ye. 

Higgins. 
That be 'im, and mea, Miss. 

Jackson. 

An' mea, Miss. 

Allen. 

An' we weant mention naw naames, 
we'd as lief talk o' the Divil afoor ye 
as 'im, fur they says the master goas 
clean off his 'ead when he 'ears the 
naame on 'im ; but us three, arter 
Sally 'd telled us on 'im, we fun' 'im 
out a-walkin' i' West Field wi' a 
white 'at, nine o'clock, upo' Tuesday 
murnin', and all on us, wi' your leave, 
we wants to leather 'im. 

Dora. 
Who? 

Allen. 

Him as did the mischief here, five 
year' sin'. 



Mr. Edgar ? 



Dora. 



Allen. 



Theer, Miss ! You ha' naamed 'im 
— not me. 

Dora. 

He's dead, man — dead; gone to his 
account — dead and buried. 

Allen. 

I beant sa sewer o' that, fur Sally 
knaw'd 'im ; Now then ? 

Dora. 

Yes ; it was in the Somersetshire 
papers. 



Allen. 

Then yon mun be his brother, an' 
we'll leather 'im. 

Dora. 

I never heard that he had a brother. 
Some foolish mistake of Sally's; but 
what ! would you beat a man for his 
brother's fault ? That were a wild 
justice indeed. Let bygones be by- 
gones. Go home ! Good-night ! (All 
exeunt.) I have once more paid them 
all. The work of the farm will go on 
still, but for how long 1 We are 
almost at the bottom of the well: lit- 
tle more to be drawn from it — and 
what then ? Encumbered as we are. 
who would lend us anything ? We 
shall have to sell all the land, which 
Father, for a whole life, has been get- 
ting together, again, and that, I am 
sure, would be the death of him. 
What am I to do ? Farmer Dobson, 
were I to marry him, has promised to 
keep our heads above water; and the 
man has doubtless a good heart, and 
a true and lasting love forme: yet 

— though I can be sorry for him — 
as the good Sally says, " I can't abide 
him" — almost brutal, and matched 
with my Harold is like a hedge thistle 
by a garden rose. But then, he, too 

— will he ever be of one faith with 
his wife ? which is my dream of a true 
marriage. Can I fancy him kneeling 
with me, and uttering the same prayer; 
standing up side by side with me, and 
singing the same hymn ? I fear not. 
Have I done wisely, then, in accept- 
ing him ? But may not a girl's love- 
dream have too much romance in it 
to be realized all at once, or altogether, 
or anywhere but in Heaven ? And yet 
I had once a vision of a pure and per- 
fect marriage, where the man and the 
woman, only differing as the stronger 
and the weaker, should walk hand in 
hand together down this valley of 
tears, as they call it so truly, to the 
grave at the bottom, and lie down 
there together in the darkness which 



924 



THE PROMISE OE MAY. 



would seem but for a moment, to be 
wakened again together by the light 
of the resurrection, and no more part- 
ings forever and forever. ( Walks 
up and down. She sings.) 

" O happy lark, that warblest high 

Above thy lowly nest, 
O brook, that brawlest merrily by 

Thro' fields that once were blest, 
O tower spiring to the sky, 

graves in daisies drest, 

Love and Life, how weary am I, 
And how I long for rest." 

There, there, lama fool ! Tears ! I 
have sometimes been moved to tears 
by a chapter of fine writing in a 
novel; but what have I to do with 
tears now ? All depends on me — 
Father, this poor girl, the farm, 
everything; and they both love me 
— I am all in all to both; and he 
loves me too, I am quite sure of that. 
Courage, courage ! and all will go 
well. {Goes to bedroom door; opens 
it.) How dark your room is ! Let 
me bring you in here where there is 
still full daylight. {Brings Eva for- 
ward.) Why, you look better. 

Eva. 

And I feel so much better that I 
trust I may be able by-and-by to help 
you in the business of the farm; but 

1 must not be known yet. Has any- 
one found me out, Dora 1 

Dora. 

Oh, no ; you kept your veil too 
close for that when they carried you 
in ; since then, no one has seen you 
but myself. 

Eva. 

Yes — this Milly. 

Dora. 

Poor blind Father's little guide, 
Milly, who came to us three years 
after you were gone, how should she 



know you ? But now that you have 
been brought to us as it were from 
the grave, dearest Eva, and have been 
here so long, will you not speak with 
Father to-day ? 

Eva. 

Do you think that I may 1 No, 
not yet. I am not equal to it yet. 

Dora. 

Why ? Do you still suffer from 
your fall in the hollow lane ? 

Eva. 
Bruised ; but no bones broken. 

Dora. 

I have always told Father that the 
huge old ashtree there would cause 
an accident some day ; but he would 
never cut it down, because one of the 
Steers had planted it there in former 
times. 

Eva. 

If it had killed one of the Steers 
there the other day, it might have 
been better for her, for him, and for 
you. 

Dora. 

Come, come, keep a good heart! 
Better for me ! That's good. How 
better for me ? 

Eva. 

You tell me you have. a lover. Will 
he not fly from you if he learn the 
story of my shame and that I am still 
living 1 

Dora. 

No ; I am sure that when we are 
married he will be willing that you 
and Father should live with us ; for, 
indeed, he tells me that he met you 
once in the old times, and was much 
taken with you, my dear. 



THE PROMISE OF MAY. 



925 



Eva. 

Taken with me ; who was he ? 
Have you told him I am here 1 

Dora. 

No; do you wish it ? 

Eva. 

Sec, Dora ; you yourself are 
ashamed of me (weeps), and I do not 
wonder at it. 

Dora. 

But I should wonder at myself if it 
were so. Have we not been all in all 
to one another from the time when 
we first peeped into the bird's nest, 
waded in the brook, ran after the but- 
terflies, and prattled to each other 
that we would marry fine gentlemen, 
and played at being fine ladies ? 

Eva. 

That last was my Father's fault, 
poor man. And this lover of yours 
— this Mr. Harold — is a gentleman ? 

Dora. 

That he is, from head to foot. I do 
believe I lost my heart to him the 
very first time we met, and I love him 
so much 



Poor Dora ! 



Eva. 



Dora. 



That I dare not tell him how much 
I love him. 

Eva. 

Better not. Has he offered you 
marriage, this gentleman 1 

Dora. 

Could I love him else ? 

Eva. 

And are you quite sure that after 
marriage this gentleman will not be 



shamed of his poor farmer's daughter 
among the ladies in his drawing- 
room ? 

Dora. 

Shamed of me in a drawing-room ! 
Wasn't Miss Vavasour, our school- 
mistress at Littlechester, a lady born ? 
Were not our fellow-pupils all ladies 1 
Wasn't dear mother herself at least 
by one side a lady ? Can't I speak 
like a lady ; pen a letter like a lady ; 
talk a little French like a lady; play 
a little like a lady 1 Can't a girl 
when she loves her husband, and he 
her, make herself anything he wishes 
her to be ? Shamed of me in a draw- 
ing-room, indeed! See here! "I 
hope your Lordship is quite recovered 
of your gout ? " (Curtsies.) "Will 
your Ladyship ride to cover to-day ? 
(Curtsies.) I can recommend our 
Voltigeur." " I am sorry that we 
could not attend your Grace's party 
on the 10th!" (Curtsies.) There, I 
am glad my nonsense has made you 
smile! 

Eva. 

I have heard that " your Lordship," 
and "your Ladyship," and "your 
Grace " are all growing old-fashioned ! 

Dora. 

But the love of sister for sister can 
never be old-fashioned. I have been 
unwilling to trouble you with ques- 
tions, but you seem somewhat better 
to-day. We found a letter in your 
bedroom torn into bits. I couldn't 
make it out. What was it 1 

Eva. 

From him ! from him ! He said we 
had been most happy together, and 
he trusted that some time we should 
meet again, for he had not forgotten 
his promise to come when I called 
him. But that was a mockery, you 
know, for he gave me no address, and 
there was no word of marriage; and, 



926 



THE PROMISE OF MAY. 



Dora, he signed himself " Yours 
gratefully " — fancy, Dora, " grate- 
fully " ! " Yours gratefully " ! 

Dora. 

Infamous wretch ! {Aside.) Shall 

1 tell her he is dead ? No ; she is 
still too feeble. 

Eva. 

Hark ! Dora, some one is coming. 
I cannot and I will not see anybody. 

Dora. 

It is only Milly. 

Enter Milly, with basket of roses. 

Dora. 

"Well, Milly, why do you come in so 
roughly ? The sick lady here might 
have been asleep. 

Milly. 

Please, Miss, Mr. Dobson telled me 
to saay he's browt some of Miss Eva's 
roses for the sick laady to smell on. 

Dora. 

Take them, dear. Say that the 
sick lady thanks him ! Is he here 1 

Milly. 

YeSs, Miss ; and he wants to speak 
to ye partic'lar. 

Dora. 

Tell him I cannot leave the sick 
lady just yet. 

Milly. 

Yeas, Miss ; but he says he wants 
to tell ye summut very partic'lar. 

Dora. 

Not to-day. What are you stay- 
ing for 1 

Milly. 

Why, Miss, I be afeard I shall set 
him a-swcaring like onythink. 



Dora. 

And what harm will that do you, 
so that you do not copy his bad man- 
ners ? Go, child. (Exit Milly.) 
But, Eva, why did you write " Seek 
me at the bottom of the river " 1 

Eva. 

Why ? because I meant it ! — that 
dreadful night ! that lonely walk to 
Littlechester, the rain beating in my 
face all the way, dead midnight when 
I came upon the bridge ; the river, 
black, slimy, swirling under me in the 
lamplight, by the rotten wharfs — but 
I was so mad, that I mounted upon 
the parapet 

Dora. 

You make me shudder! 

Eva. 

To fling myself over, when I heard 
a voice, " Girl, what are you doing 
there ? " It was a Sister of Mercy, 
come from the death-bed of a pauper, 
who had died in his misery blessing 
God, and the Sister took me to her 
house, and bit by bit — for she 
promised secrecy — I told her all. 

Dora. 
And what then ? 

Eva. 

She would have persuaded me to 
come back here, but I couldn't. Then 
she got me a place as nursery gov- 
erness, and when the children grew 
too old for me, and I asked her once 
more to help me, once more she said, 
"Go home;" but I hadn't the heart 
or face to do it. And then — what 
would Father say ? I sank so low 
that I went into service — the drudge 
of a lodging-house — and when the 
mistress died, and I appealed to the 
Sister again, her answer — I think I 
have it about me — yes, there it is ! 



THE PROMISE OF MAY. 



927 



Dora (reads). 

"My dear Child, — I can do no 
more for you. I have done wrong in 
keeping your secret; your Father 
must be now in extreme old age. Go 
back to him and ask his forgiveness 
before he dies. — Sister Agatha." 
Sister Agatha is right. Don't you 
long for Father's forgiveness ? 

Eva. 

I would almost die to have it ! 

Dora. 

And he may die before he gives it ; 
may drop off any day, any hour. 
You must see him at once. (Rings 
bell. Enter Milly.) Milly, my dear, 
how did you leave Mr. Steer 1 

Milly. 

He's been a-moanin' and a-groanin' 
in 'is sleep, but I thinks he be wakken- 
in' oop. 

Dora. 

Tell him that I and the lady here 
wish to see him. You see she is lamed, 
and cannot go down to him. 

Milly. 
Yeas, Miss, I will. [Exit Milly. 

Dora. 

I ought to prepare you. You must 
not expect to find our Father as he 
was five years ago. He is much al- 
tered ; but I trust that your return — 
for you know, my dear, you were 
always his favorite — will give him, 
as they say, a new lease of life. 

Eva (clinging to Dora). 

Oh, Dora, Dora ! 

Enter Steer, led by Milly. 

Steer. 

Hes the cow cawved ? 



Dora. 
No, Father. 

Steer. 

Be the colt dead ? 



No, Father. 



Dora. 



Steer. 



He wur sa bellows'd out wi' the 
wind this murnin', 'at I tell'd 'em to 
gallop 'im. Be he dead ? 

Dora. 

Not that I know. 

Steer. 
What hasta sent fur me, then, fur * 
Dora (taking Steer's arm). 

Well, Father, I have a surprise for 
you. 

Steer. 

I ha niver been surprised but once 
i' my life, and I went blind upon it. 

Dora. 
Eva has come home. 

Steer. 
Hoam 1 fro' the bottom o' the river ? 

Dora. 

No, Father, that was a mistake. 
She's here again. 

Steer. 

The Steers was all gentlefoalks i' 
the owd times, an' I worked early an' 
laate to maake 'em all gentlefoalks 
agean. The land belonged to the 
Steers i' the owd times, an' it belongs 
to the Steers agean : I bowt it back 
agean; but I couldn't buy my darter 
back agean when she lost hersen, 
could I ? I eddicated boath on 'em 
to marry gentlemen, an' one on 'em 
went an' lost hersen i' the river. 



928 



THE PROMISE OF MAY. 



Dora. 

No, father, 6he's here. 

Steer. 

Here ! she moant coom here. What 
would her mother saay ? If it be her 
ghoast, we mun abide it. We can't 
keep a ghoast out. 

Eva (falling at his feef) . 

O forgive me ! forgive me ! 

Steer. 

Who said that ? Taake me awaay, 
little gell. It be one o' my bad 
daays. 

[Exit Steer led by Milly. 

Dora (smoothing Eva's forehead). 

Be not so cast down, my sweet Eva. 
You heard him say it was one of his 
bad days. He will be sure to know 
you to-morrow. 

Eva. 

It is almost the last of my bad 
days, I think. I am very faint. I 
must lie down. Give me your arm. 
Lead me back again. 

[Dora takes Eva into inner room. 

Enter Milly. 

Milly. 

Miss Dora ! Miss Dora ! 

Dora (returning and leaving the bed- 
room door ajar). 
Quiet ! quiet ! What is it ? 

Milly. 
Mr. 'Arold, Miss. 

Dora. 



Below ? 



Milly. 



Yeas, Miss. He be saayin' a word 
to the owd man, but he'll coom up if 
ye lets 'im. 



Dora. 

Tell him, then, that I'm waiting for 
him. 

Milly. 

Yeas, Miss. 
[Exit. Dora sits pensively and waits. 

Enter Harold. 

Harold. 

You are pale, my Dora ! but the 

ruddiest cheek 
That ever charm'd the plowman of 

your wolds 
Might wish its rose a lily, could it 

look 
But half as lovely. I was speaking 

with 
Your father, asking his consent — you 

wish'd me — 
That we should marry : he would 

answer nothing, 
I could make nothing of him; but, 

my flower, 
You look so weary and so worn ! 

What is it 
Has put you out of heart ? 

Dora. 

It puts me in heart 
Again to see you; but indeed the 

state 
Of my poor father puts me out of 

heart. 
Is yours yet living ? 

Harold. 
No — I told you. 

Dora. 



When? 



Harold. 



Confusion! — Ah well, well ! the state 

we all 
Must come to in our spring-and-winter 

world 
If we live long enough ! and poor 

Steer looks 
The very type of Age in a picture, 

bow'd 



THE PROMISE OF MAY. 



929 



To the earth he came from, to the 

grave he goes to, 
Beneath the burthen of years. 

Dora. 

More like the picture 
Of Christian in my "Pilgrim's Prog- 
ress " here, 
Bow'd to the dust beneath the burthen 
of sin. 

Harold. 

Sin ! What sin ? 

Dora. 

Not his own. 

Harold. 

That nursery-tale 
Still read, then ? 

Dora. 

Yes ; our carters and our shepherds 
Still find a comfort there. 

Harold. 

Carters and shepherds ! 

Dora. 

Scorn! I hate scorn. A soul with no 

religion — 
My mother used to say that such a 

one 
Was without rudder, anchor, compass 

— might be 
Blown everyway with every gust and 

wreck 
On any rock; and tho' you are good 

and gentle, 
Yet if thro' any want 

Harold. 

Of this religion ? 

Child, read a little history, you will 
find 

The common brotherhood of man has 
been 

Wrong'd by the cruelties of his re- 
ligions 



More than could ever have happen'd 

thro' the want 
Of any or all of them. 

Dora. 

— But, dear friend, 
If thro' the want of any — 1 mean the 

true one — 
And pardon me for saying it — you 

should ever 
Be tempted into doing what might 

seem 
Not altogether worthy of you, I 

think 
That I should break my heart, for 

you have taught me 
To love you. 

Harold. 

What is this ? some one been stirring 
Against me ? he, your rustic amourist, 
The polish'd Damon of your pastoral 

here, 
This Dobson of your idyll ? 

Dora. 

No, Sir, no ! 
Did you not tell me he was crazed 

with jealousy, 
Had threaten'd ev'n your life, and 

would say anything ? 
Did / not promise not to listen to 

him, 
Not ev'n to see the man ? 

Harold. 

Good ; then what is it 
That makes you talk so dolefully 1 

Dora. 

I told you — 
My father. Well, indeed, a friend 

just now, 
One that has been much wrong'd, 

whose griefs are mine, 
Was warning me that if a gentleman 
Should wed a farmer's daughter, he 

would be 
Sooner or later shamed of her among 
The ladies, born his equals. 



930 



THE PROMISE OF MAY. 



Harold. 

More fool he ! 
What I that have been call'd a 

Socialist, 
A Communist, a Nihilist — what you 

will ! — 

Dora. 
What are all these 1 

Harold. 

Utopian idiotcies. 
They did not last three Junes. Such 

rampant weeds 
Strangle each other, die, and make 

the soil 
For Caesars, Cromwells, and Napo- 
leons 
To root their power in. I have freed 

myself 
From ail such dreams, and some will 

say because 
I have inherited my Uncle. Let 

them. 
But — shamed of you, my Empress ! 

I should prize 
The pearl of Beauty, even if I found 

it 
Dark with the soot of slums. 

Dora. 

-But I can tell you, 
We Steers are of old blood, tho' we 

be fallen. 
iSee there our shield. (Pointing to 

arms on mantelpiece.') For I 

have heard the Steers 
Had land in Saxon times ; and your 

own name 
Of Harold sounds so English and so 

old 
I am sure you must be proud of it. 

Harold. 

Not I! 
As yet I scarcely feel it mine. I 

took it 
For some three thousand acres. I 

have land now 
And wealth, and lay both at your 
feet. 



Dora. 

And what was 
Your name before ? 

Harold. 

Come, come, my girl, enough 

Of this strange talk. I love you and 
you me. 

True, I have held opinions, hold some 
still, 

Which you would scarce approve of : 
for all that, 

I am a man not prone to jealousies, 

Caprices, humors, moods ; but very 
ready 

To make allowances, and mighty 
slow 

To feel offences. Nay, I do believe 

I could forgive — well, almost any- 
thing — , 

And that more freely than your for- 
mal priest, 

Because I know more fully than he 
can 

What poor earthworms are all and 
each of us, 

Here crawling in this boundless 
Nature. Dora, 

If marriage ever brought a woman 
happiness 

I doubt not I can make you happy. 



You make me 



Dora. 

Happy already. 

Harold. 

And I never said 
As much before to any woman liv 



No? 



Dora. 



Harold. 



No ! by this true kiss, you are the first 
I ever have loved truly. 

[They kiss each other. 

Eva (with a tuild cry). 

Philip Edgar! 



THE PROMISE OF MAY. 



931 



Harold. 

The phantom cry! You — did you 
hear a cry 1 

Dora. 

She must be crying out "Edgar" in 
her sleep. 

Harold. 

Who must be crying out " Edgar " in 
her sleep ? 

Dora. 

Your pardon for a minute. She must 
be waked. 

Harold. 
Who must be waked ? 

Dora. 

I am not deaf : you fright me. 
What ails you ? 

Harold. 
Speak. 

Dora. 
You know her, Eva. 

Harold. 

Eva! 
[Eva opens the door and stands in 
the entry. 
She! 

Eva. 

Make her happy, then, and I 
forgive yon. 

[Falls dead. 

Dora. 

Happy! What? Edgar? Is it so? 

" Can it be ? 
They told me so. Yes, yes ! I see it 

all now. 
she has fainted. Sister, Eva, 

6ister ! 



He is yours again — he will love you 
again ; 

I give him back to you again. Look 
np! 

One word, or do but smile ! Sweet, do 
you hear me ? 
[Puts her hand on Eva's heart. 

There, there — the heart, O God ! — 
the poor young heart 

Broken at last — all still — and noth- 
ing left 

To live for. 

[Falls on body of her sister. 

Harold. 

Living . . . dead . . . She said 
"all still. 
Nothing to live for." 

She — she knows me — now . . . 

(.4 pause.) 

She knew me from the first, she jug- 
gled with me, 
She hid this sister, told me she was 

dead — 
I have wasted pity on her — not dead 

now — 
No ! acting, playing on me, both of 

them. 
They drag the river for her ! no, not 

they ! 
Playing on me — not dead now — a 

swoon — a scene — 
Yet — how she made her wail as for 

the dead ! 

Enter Millt. 

MlLLT. 

Please, Mister 'Arold 

Harold (roughly). 
Well? 

Millt. 

The owd man's coom'd agean to 

'issen, an' wants 
To hev a word wi' ye about the mar- 

riage. 



932 



THE PROMISE OF MAY. 



Harold. 
The what ? 

Milly. 
The marriage. 

Harold. 

The marriage ? 

Milly. 

Yeas, the marriage. 
Granny says marriages be maade i' 
'eaven. 

Harold. 

She lies! They are made in Hell. 

Child, can't you see ? 
Tell them to fly for a doctor. 

Milly. 

law — yeas, Sir! 
Fll run fur 'im mysen. 

Harold. 

All silent there, 
Yes, deathlike ! Dead 1 I dare not 

look : if dead, 
Were it best to steal away, to spare 

myself, 
And her too, pain, pain, pain 1 

My curse on all 
This world of mud, on all its idiot 

gleams 
Of pleasure, all the foul fatalities 
That blast our natural passions into 

pains ! 

Enter Dobson. 

DOBSON. 

You, Master Hedgar, Harold, or 

whativer 
They calls ye, for I warrants that ye 

goas 
By haafe a scoor o' naames — out o' 

the chaumber. 

[Dragging him past the body. 



Harold. 

Not that way, man ! Curse on your 

brutal strength ! 
I cannot pass that way. 

Dobson. 

Out o' the chaumber ! 
I'll mash tha into nowt. 

Harold. 
The mere wild-beast ! 

Dobson. 
Out o' the chaumber, dang tha! 

Harold. 

Lout, churl, clown ! 
[While they are shouting and strug- 
gling Dora rises and comes be- 
tween them. 

Dora (to Dobson). 

Peace, let him be : it is the chamber 
of Death ! 

Sir, you are tenfold more a gentle- 
man, 

A hundred times more worth a 
woman's love, 

Than this, this — but I waste no 
words upon him : 

His wickedness is like my wretched- 
ness — 

Beyond all language. 

(To Harold.) 

You — you see her there! 
Only fifteen when first you came on 

her, 
And then the sweetest flower of all 

the wolds, 
So lovely in the promise of her May, 
So winsome in her grace and gaiety, 
So loved by all the village people 

here, 
So happy in herself and in her 

home 



THE PROMISE OF MAY 



933 



Dobson {agitated). 

Tlieer, theer! ha' done. I can't 
abear to see her. 

[Exit, 
Dora. 

A child, and all as trustful as a child ! 
Five years of shame and suffering 

broke the heart 
That only beat for you ; and he, the 

father, 
Thro' that dishonor which you 

brought upon us, 
Has lost his health, his eyesight, even 

his mind. 

Harold {covering his face). 

Enough ! 

Dora. 

It seem'd so ; only there was left 
A second daughter, and to her you 

came 
Veiling one sin to act another. 



Harold. 



No! 



You wrong me there ! hear, hear me ! 

I wish'd, if you 

[Pauses. 

Dora. 
If I 

Harold. 

Could love me, could be brought to 

love me 
As I loved you 

Dora. 
What then ? 

Harold. 

I wish'd, I hoped 
To make, to make 

Dora. 
What did you hope to make 1 



Harold. 

'Twere best to make an end of my 

lost life. 
O Dora, Dora ! 

Doha. 
What did you hope to make ? 

Harold. 

Make, make ! I cannot find the word 

— forgive it — 
Amends. 

Dora. 
For what ? to whom ? 

Harold. 

To him, to you ! 

[Falling at her feet. 

Dora. 

To him ! to me I 

No, not with all your wealth, 
Your land, your life ! Out in the 

fiercest storm 
That ever made earth tremble — he, 

nor I — 
The shelter of your roof — not for one 

moment — 
Nothing from you ! 
Sunk in the deepest pit of pauperism, 
Push'd from all doors as if we bore 

the plague, 
Smitten with fever in the open field, 
Laid famine-stricken at the gates of 

Death — 
Nothing from you ! 

But she there — her last word 
Forgave — and I forgive you. If you 

ever 
Forgive yourself, you are even lower 

and baser 
Than even I can well believe you. 

Go! 
[He lies at her feet. Curtain falls. 






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